


White Flag Wars

by norvina



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sons of Anarchy, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, I reread 50 shades while I wrote this., I'm not Sorry., IRA! Clarke, Light Dom/sub, Motorcycle club, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-01-24 15:10:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 48,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21340258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norvina/pseuds/norvina
Summary: IRA Princess Clarke Griffin was exiled to Arkadia, California after a family tragedy by her father. Bellamy Blake was raised to be the future President of Skaikru and thinks Clarke Griffin is too innocent to be part of his world of sex, guns, and money.Is Clarke's past too much for Bellamy to handle?
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 185
Kudos: 515





	1. Chapter 1

The soft hum of Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On" soundtracks her violent retching. Clarke blames the overpowering smell of cheap, and probably inedible, food for her recent bout of sickness.

Typically, she isn't bothered by her job's drawbacks. The benefits outweigh the obvious cons.

She's worked at The Dropship Diner for nearly ten months. It’s never really bothered her before.

_Just stress_, she reminds herself.

Clarke gets back to work after splashing tap water in her mouth and convincing herself that her "half-dead" appearance isn't _that_ noticeable.

Clarke's fear that it actually is **that** noticeable is confirmed when Harper Greene, a fellow waitress, casts an oddly empathetic look her way.

Harper is a year younger than Clarke but a lot happier with her current position in the world. She married her first love, Monty, and is a proud mother of a two-year-old son named Jordan. Harper's the type of woman that never complains about her life and takes everything with stride—positively blissful in ways that Clarke could never be.

Clarke's stomach churns as she eases behind the counter again. Kyle Wick, the owner of The Dropship, is cooking cheeseburgers on the grill. It seems he’s too busy annoying the staff with his off-tune humming to care about the hot grease popping on his uncovered hands. 

Wick is an okay guy when he's not being a complete and utter douchebag. He inherited The Dropship Diner from his father and mainly uses it as a way to launder money from his other ventures.

Because really, if the shit-hole wasn’t a front, it’d most likely be condemned. 

Wick unceremoniously transfers the overcooked cheeseburger patties on a napkin-covered plate and puts on eight more. The diner is about to close but Wick's expecting his non-biological brothers to stop by for their weekly free meal (along with their significant others, apparently).

Clarke knows that she's supposed to leave once they arrive—but not because Wick wishes to protect her poorly assumed "innocence.” She's no longer welcome around his friends for personal reasons.

Clarke has to admit that she’s landed herself in quite a _childish_ situation. Her poor mother would be beside herself if she knew. 

Wick happens to be a member of a motorcycle gang—or club, _whatever_. This is something that’s common knowledge amongst the residents of Arkadia, as well as something Clarke was fully aware of prior to relocating to this one pony town. 

A lesser known fact is that Skaikru Motorcycle Club is a small point of contact for a subset of the Irish Republic Army. It’s mainly guns, but sometimes more if necessary. Naturally, the club isn’t restricted to working with the IRA but it’s their main provider. 

She’s never publicized the fact that she knows Skaikru is filled with semi-violent criminals, but it's something that she's well-informed on.

The only reason she says semi-violent is because Monty Greene and Jasper Jordan (the namesake of Harper's child) are members and Clarke doubts they could ever pull the trigger.

Full disclosure, Clarke was bored when she moved to Arkadia. It's not exactly a fun place to live. Her life back home was much more exciting.

She needed a distraction from watching paint peel, maybe a connection, and she chose to entertain the curiosity of Skaikru's Vice President, a.k.a. Bellamy Blake, for a few glorious months.

It was a strictly casual arrangement until he decided to get back together with his psychopath ex-girlfriend, Echo, for reasons unknown. Clarke doesn't see the allure, but then again, she's slightly bitter that she's lost her main source of fun.

The worst part is that Echo's been enjoying her time as "Alpha Female" since Bellamy took her back. It's annoying.

And also disgusting. Who actually calls themselves an alpha female?

Betas. That’s who. 

According to her, Clarke isn't allowed to share Bellamy's space. Since her control is solely limited to dead-end diners, Clarke's humored her. At least it gives her an excuse to leave work early when the club holds Saturday dinner.

"Order up!" Wick yells enthusiastically. It's the third time he's announced the progress of his burgers to the desolate diner. Clarke vaguely wonders if he's sober.

Probably not.

Harper groans as she finishes wiping down her side of the diner, "You don't have to say _order up_ every time, you know?"

Wick only laughs in response to her aggravation and Clarke goes back to doing absolutely nothing. She finished her side work before she lost her guts in the bathroom.

"Hey, I didn't ask for your opinion." Wick laughs under his breath and goes back to humming. It's a sweet tune.

Clarke's pretty sure Harper and Wick are cousins, but she's never bothered to confirm her suspicions. Asking personal questions leads to unnecessary attachment and she’s not doing that shit again.

She won’t even begin to describe how stupid she is for developing something with Bellamy Blake.

Plus, she's not even sure Harper would claim him. Wick throws on more patties. Clarke watches the grease sizzle, feeling nausea creeping up her throat again.

_Jesus, Mary, Joseph._

"Clarke, you can go when everyone gets here," Wick says as if he is doing her a major favor.

The truth is, Clarke thinks he feels bad, if not conflicted about the whole ordeal. He's the one that introduced Bellamy and Clarke. Maybe he knew all along that she was being used as a temporary distraction—

_Stop. It doesn’t matter. _

She just nods because addressing the issue only fucks everyone's mood up.

Harper walks over to Clarke, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. Clarke cringes, never one to like casual affectionate touch. Harper doesn't seem to notice. The girl whispers, "Hey if you need anything, l got your back…I know you're super private but I remember how it was, okay?"

Clarke's confused because she's pretty sure Harper has never been hated by anyone in her entire life. Clarke's been known to piss people off from time to time and she's perfectly content dealing with the consequences of her own reckless actions.

Sleeping with Bellamy was fun and exhilarating, sure, but she's got bigger things in her life. Really, his indirect rejection doesn't hurt that much and if she keeps telling herself that every single day, she'll eventually believe it. It was just a fling. Flings end.

"I don't follow," Clarke admits, trying her best to be polite.

Harper sighs like Clarke is being difficult, "When I was pregnant with Jordan, I was always sick, too."

"I'm not pregnant," Clarke says quickly and the blatant aggression in her voice startles her. It's been a while since she's been that direct with someone. Harper looks positively mortified. Clarke readjusts her tone, "Wait, is that what people are saying? Because I'm not."

"Uh, no, I just thought…you've been throwing up constantly and, you know what? Never mind. I was wrong to assume." Harper gives her a tentative smile but she's clearly flustered and embarrassed. "Don't worry, I didn't tell anyone what I thought. I just wanted you to know that you don't have to be alone all the time."

Harper walks towards the grill so she can playfully pester Wick.

Her head is absolutely spinning. _What the fuck was that?_

The entrance bell rings. Clarke's heart drops. _Oh no, not now. Please don't be him._

Ever since Bellamy broke off their arrangement, things have been odd. Echo's expectations mean her interaction with Bellamy is incredibly limited. When they happen to be in the same space, she can feel his eyes on her. Just watching her move through her dim life. Clarke likes to think he wants to say something but doesn't know how to approach her. Something tells her that she's just projecting.

Clarke does her best to avoid him. It's her way of respecting his decision. She stopped going to the bar and taking smoke breaks behind the diner. She doesn't even sit on her front porch anymore.

She's relieved when she sees Wells Jaha beaming at her instead of Bellamy.

Wells is wearing his police uniform, gun holstered on his side. He gets a lot of praise for his decision to become a police officer despite his father's wealth and political status in Arkadia. Women love him. Clarke doesn't know if Wells is aware of the long line of admirers he has or if he just doesn't care. Everyone knows he has a giant crush on Clarke.

"Hey, I'll get my usual, Wick,” He calls out, knuckles drumming on the freshly clean counter. Clarke bites back a grimace because she just finished wiping them down. Wells' smile widens when he notices that he has her attention, completely unaware that she's mentally choking him.

Clarke smiles back even though she doesn't mean it. Harper's words are running through her head and she's trying to translate them until they take on a whole different meaning. The bottom line is that she could be pregnant. Shit like that happens all the time, right? They used protection every breathless round, but condoms aren't 100% effective and they're both young.

She can't help but think she'll never be able to return home if she's pregnant.

Clarke tables her inner turmoil because she doesn't want to alert the entire town that she's slightly unstable. As far as they know, Clarke Chase is just a subpar waitress that moved here ten months ago. The only exciting thing about her is she used to fuck Bellamy. She hasn't disclosed anything else.

Clarke Griffin, on the other hand, is a woman with a rather complicated past.

"Another long night on duty…" Wells muses, plopping down in front of her. He has a habit of sitting wherever she's hanging out just so he can chat her up. She would find it cute if he wasn't so goddamn wrong about her. Wells continues hopefully, "But, I'm off tomorrow."

Clarke raises an eyebrow. He asks her out all the time, especially now that it's obvious she's single. She doesn't want to hurt his feelings but she doesn't see him that way and after being such an idiot with Bellamy, she's not planning on dating anyone here. Or anywhere, honestly.

Love isn't for her.

"So, I was wondering if you had plans?"

"Oh, Wells, I—"

The bell dings again.

Skaikru's younger members filter in through the door, laughing and pushing each other like children. Jasper walks in, a mischievous grin plastered on his face. He leans on the counter, flutters his eyes at Clarke, "Hello, Miss Chase."

"Jasper," Clarke tries to remain neutral but the utter ridiculousness of his stance causes her to crack a smile, "What do you want?"

Wells is displeased that Jasper is interrupting his limited time with Clarke. She gives him a brief smile, just to diffuse the tension. The bell dings but Clarke doesn't notice it, too wrapped up in preserving people's emotions.

Jasper readjusts his elbow on the counter, trying and failing to appear casual, "Can I just say you look beautiful today?"

Clarke narrows her eyes, "Thank you. I repeat, what do you want?"

"A date."

_What?_

Bellamy walks by the bar like he doesn't have a care in the world. As he passes Jasper, he irritatedly murmurs, "Leave Clarke alone. She's too sweet to tell you to fuck off."

Clarke's willing to bet his message is for Wells, too.

Clarke's eyes follow him until he sits down beside Nathan Miller. Bellamy's wearing a plain black t-shirt and worn, oil-stained jeans but she swears she's never seen someone look so graceful. She envies his confidence after years of falsely manufacturing her own.

His brothers are quiet as they regard him closely. Everyone's always watching him, waiting for their orders. Bellamy just watches Clarke, meeting her unusually shy blue eyes.

Her cheeks flush, and like a coward, she blames the built-up heat from the grill. She looks down at the counter, finding it to be wholly interesting. Her hand starts to fidget with the golden locket around her neck. It's her nervous habit. She hates the effect he has on her even after everything that's happened.

Jasper straightens but doesn't give up. Clarke admires his bravery, not too many people disobey Bellamy. He's a stern leader. But, she reconsiders her admiration when he starts stumbling over his words, "Not a date with you. Not that you're not great. 10/10 would recommend to a friend—uh, I know you hang out with Margot. Her daughter. Maya. Do you think you could hook me up?"

Margot owns a dance studio that Clarke works out at almost every night. She's only met Maya a few times because she goes to college out of state. Jasper's probably trying to lay down some groundwork before Maya comes home for holiday.

"I'll see what I can do," Clarke softly says, "Now, go sit down before you get in trouble."

Jasper grabs her face and kisses her cheek, "Thanks, mom!"

Clarke huffs, amused, then she remembers why she's so stressed out. She's confident Jasper only called her mom because she gave him a maternal-like order but it's enough to make her heartbeat spike and her stomach churn.

"Earth to Clarke," Wells says, waving a hand in front of her face, "What are your plans for tomorrow?"

Skaikru's table is still unusually quiet. Why can't they just mind their own business?

Clarke starts screwing with the locket again, "I'm actually leaving for Los Angeles at 4 AM."

She has a prior obligation in LA. Plans she made a couple of weeks ago. Clarke's meeting a family friend. It's why she's been so stressed. Her subconscious reasons, _See, you're not pregnant, idiot._

"Oh, wow, LA? What takes you there? That's about a five hour drive."

"Mass."

Instinctively, she raises her head and sees Bellamy smirking as he leans forward in his chair, elbows against the table. He's pretending to be interested in whatever Miles is whispering about, but she knows that she has his full attention.

He always got a good laugh out of Clarke's Catholic tendencies. Maybe it's because he knows how much she loves to sin. Especially with him.

Bellamy is, well, different than anyone she's ever been with. She didn't grow up living under a rock, so of course, she knows all about trending BDSM. Light choking, spanking—the works. Fifty Shades started an open-minded epidemic towards kinky sex. While Bellamy's not a swoon-worthy multi-millionaire, he's definitely a dominant.

He never asked her to sign a contract or submit to him. That wasn't the face of their relationship together. Bellamy only requests that type of commitment for serious relationships. Seeing as they were solely casual, they just experimented with light power exchange. She always wondered what it would be like to surrender herself to him. Maybe she'd find it therapeutic.

Clarke was certainly eager enough.

It doesn't really matter what could have been, though. She tells herself that every day as well. 

"You're going all the way to LA for church?" Wells asks and she wonders if he's opting to be oblivious or if he's really that dense. The cruelty of her thoughts makes her feel bad. He doesn't know why she's unloveable. It's not his fault. He continues, "That's real devotion."

The bell dings again. Aurora Blake walks in looking positively ethereal. Clarke thinks she's beautiful but knows that she's a raging bitch. She never had much tolerance for Clarke, especially after it became public knowledge that she was fooling around with her son. What's she going to think if Clarke's pregnant?

Next comes Bellamy's sister.

Octavia Blake.

She's stunning but there's a darkness in her eyes that Clarke knows too well. Maybe in another lifetime, they would’ve been friends.

Echo follows Octavia, her brown hair pulled up in a messy bun. She's wearing a mid-drift black shirt that shows off a snake tattoo and a pair of tight leather pants. Another beautiful woman.

It feels like there’s something stuck in her throat when she faces reality; Bellamy and Echo belong together. She can be everything he wants and she doesn't come with a bunch of baggage and secrets.

Echo clears her throat, "I thought you would have taken out the trash by now, Wick."

Clarke looks up towards the Heaven's for divine intervention. Echo really doesn't want to go down this route. A little voice in the back of her darkly begs, _Please, try me._

A good fight might ease the tension that’s been sitting on her shoulders since Harper opened her mouth.

It's been a while since she's felt the satisfying sting of her knuckles splitting open. She feels like Wells would get too much satisfaction from handcuffing her after she takes a year's worth of anger out on Echo, though.

Plus, if she fights Echo for being disrespectful, Bellamy's mother and sister might jump to Echo's defense and that wouldn't make things any better.

She’d hate to put all of them in the hospital. 

Clarke maintains eye contact with Echo. An old, familiar sensation curls in her stomach and for a moment, she welcomes it. She's always had a reckless streak, especially when she's not facing her problems.

Echo averts her glare, taking a step back. Clarke addresses Wells, a smile on her face, "The priest is an old friend. Look, I have to go now. Be safe tonight. Text me if you get bored."

Wells stutters, "Y-yeah, I will. Have a goodnight, Clarke."

The second she walks to the back of the diner towards the supply closet, she regrets her power display.

Clarke's worked out that Echo is a submissive and totally into the lifestyle. It's the only way her relationship with Bellamy could possibly work. He needs control. He needs loyalty. It was cruel of her to use Echo's personality traits against her.

But having to clear the room every time Bellamy's around is ridiculous when they live in a town with less than seven hundred people in it. Not that it was ever a competition, but Bellamy chose Echo. That should be enough.

She grabs her duffel bag before exiting out the side door. Right now, the only thing she wants to do is work off her shitty mood. Clarke starts walking towards the dance studio.

She fishes for the half-empty pack of cigarettes in her apron and sticks one in her mouth. Her mother hates that she smokes but it's either this or the mental institution, so. Just before she lights it, she pauses.

What if Harper's right?

Clarke shoves the cigarette back in the pack and sets her sights on Bill's Grocer. It's the only way she'll be able to settle her mind.

_You're not pregnant_, Clarke tells herself as she follows the signs to the family planning aisle. She passes shelves filled with formula and baby food on her way, feeling worse with each step. Clarke starts debating her anxiety like it's going to fight back, _You don't even have regular periods. Stop being ridiculous._

Bill's doesn't offer an array of options like a chain store would, so she settles for the second cheapest test and tries to be as discreet as possible on her way to the register. The test's packaging claims that it is the most effective on the market. There are two sticks in the box, which if Clarke is pregnant, she'll need just to make sure she's not delusional.

_You're not pregnant!_

The cashier is a teenager that Clarke's seen in the diner a few times before. Clarke throws the pregnancy test on the counter and tries to act like it's a casual thing to do. American women have marched for the right to be able to buy pregnancy tests without judgment, she reminds herself. It does not change the gnawing guilt in her stomach.

If she is pregnant, her mother's going to kill her. She won't be impressed that her only daughter defied tradition for a nice pair of abs and a bad boy attitude.

"That'll be $12.84." The cashier says in a fake sing-song voice as she bags. Clarke knows that if she doesn't say something now, her business will be all over the town by the time she's out of the dance studio for the night.

Clarke hands the girl a twenty-dollar bill, but hesitates, "If I hear any rumors about myself tomorrow concerning this exchange, I'll personally make your life a living nightmare." It's the confidence in her voice that frightens the teenager into vehemently nodding. Clarke accepts her change and takes the brown paper bag from the girl. "Have a nice night."

Before she's outside, Clarke has stuffed the pregnancy test into her bag.

Margot gave Clarke the keys to her studio a few months ago with two conditions: Clarke use it as much as her heart desires, and that she keep questionable men off the freshly cleaned floors.

Margot probably knows more about Clarke than anyone else because she's seen her dance—watched her lament an old life through complicated step work and resilience.

Occasionally, Clarke will cover a class for her when Margot isn't feeling well. Margot's nearly fifty-four and sometimes her joints don't cooperate with her. Maya used to help before she started school according to Margot, but Clarke never saw her over the summer.

Clarke expects a lot more calls from Margot now that the weather is changing. California's winters are nothing compared to what she experienced back home, but Margot's lived in Arkadia her entire life. Clarke's dreading the requests. Teaching doesn't bother her, it's the memories that come with teaching that haunt her.

From the time Clarke was four years old, her mother insisted that she master the art of ballet.

Except, Abigail Griffin had no desire to see her daughter twirling around in pink tights and fluffy tutus. Abby solely taught Clarke ballet because it would benefit her confidence and make her more flexible.

Clarke transformed from a stumbling child to an agile, precise, and sharp weapon. She formally practiced ballet until she was sixteen and then she upgraded to more advanced physical training.

Now, she continues to practice because it keeps her ready and calms her nerves (especially in the absence of sex). She doesn't feel like her potential is being wasted when she is honoring Tchaikovsky with a flawless rendition of Odette's Solo.

She unlocks the dance studio and changes in the bathroom. Her black pointe shoes are worn from numerous nights of restless training. Clarke swaps her work clothes for tights and a t-shirt, not bothering with a leotard. The t-shirt has a shabby clover etched on it and she wears it often for comfort.

The dance studio is clean and mostly dark except for the streetlight's orange glow through the mirrored windows. No one can see inside, but she can observe the outside world if she feels inclined.

Clarke connects her phone using a Bluetooth link and presses play on her favorite Swan Lake number. Lately, she's been overplaying Swan Lake to compensate for the slight fracturing of her heart. She takes time to stretch her muscles, mind temporarily driving to the things she wants to forget.

She turns the volume up more, drowning them. Her brain is shushed by her mental counting as she performs from memory. Clarke dances until the soreness of being on her feet all day catches up with her, and even then, she pushes forward. Truthfully, she just doesn't want to go home and face the silence again.

She outdoes herself with her pointe work, but her heart is with the Odette tonight. She was a cursed maiden that fell in love and died because of it. Somehow, she doesn't think she's too far off.

After the long walk home—mostly because her muscles were screaming the entire time—Clarke decides it is time to face the music.

She's not the type of person that drags something out unless she's been ordered to do so. If she isn't pregnant, it will be one thing she can rule out and she can assure Harper with polite confidence that she isn't knocked up.

If she is… well, it would mean the end of an era for Clarke. It would mean the end of a lot of things for her—that is if Bellamy wanted to be an active part of their child's life. Clarke wants to say that she doesn't want him to be, but it's a lie.

She just knows her hopes for the future don't support that desire.

The directions are simple:

Pee on the stick—two blue lines mean pregnant. Clarke's fully aware of what she has to do, but that doesn't stop her from reading the fine print anyway. This isn't a time for careless mistakes.

After doing what she has to do, Clarke waits for what seems like an eternity. She slides down her unpainted bathroom walls onto the bathroom floor and waits.

Her fingers card through her blonde hair—she cut it all when she moved but she's been letting it grow back for a couple of months. It feels more like her.

The normal things that might run through an unmarried waitress's mind when faced with a possible pregnancy aren't present in hers. Clarke isn't worried about money—she has money from a trust fund of sorts.

Clarke only works at the diner for appearances and to avoid questions. She isn't worried about space because she lives in a two-story, three-bedroom house alone.

If she's being honest, Clarke's worried about being Clarke Chase for the rest of her life—an unimportant blurb on a town census that serves coffee to people that don't really like her.

She's worried she will never be Clarke Griffin again—the fiercely talented, important woman that she used to be and it's driving her crazy.

Despite her fears, Clarke's hands don't shake when she flips the test over, and she does not cry when it reads **positive.**

-x-

Her alarm rings at 3:00 AM and she almost convinces herself that last night didn't happen but her legs are sore and the used pregnancy test is lying mockingly on her nightstand. 

_Kill me._

Clarke closes her eyes as she remembers everything she's supposed to be stressed about, but her mind can't handle all of it and today's agenda. She pushes everything out of her mind, focusing on each individual task instead.

She gets out of bed and showers, washing her hair with rose-scented shampoo and conditioner. After her shower, she dries off and puts on some light makeup and a solid black dress with matching heels.

Today is supposed to be about reflection and mourning. The sentiment hangs true as she digs for the small flip phone she keeps in her dresser. Clarke's supposed to keep it on her person but she doesn't see the point anymore.

There's only one number programmed into it and she presses call after some brief hesitation. The phone rings three times and she mentally counts back the hours to make sure she is not calling her parents at some ungodly hour.

On the fourth ring, her mother answers. Clarke finds comfort in her thick Irish accent, "Clarke?"

"I'm here." Clarke's own accent feels weird on her tongue and she feels as if she's just taken off a painful corset. It isn't difficult to do an American accent, but it makes her feel less like herself every time she does. In some circumstances, it's harder to maintain the façade than others.

Her mother has been crying. Clarke recognizes it in her voice. She can also hear her mother's attempt to sound happy.

"I wondered if you would call...since it's been so long. Your father's been worried." Abby would take the time to guilt her for not maintaining communication. It's not like any of them have much to say when she does reach out. Her mother rambles about insignificant Dublin drama, while her father argues with her about his decision to send her away.

Clarke sighs, "I'm tired of fighting."

Abby guilts her, "You should understand your father's reasoning, if not forever, then just for today."

Today's the anniversary of her brother's death in a church bombing. He was only eight years older than Clarke but lived a vastly different lifestyle.

For starters, Ethan Griffin made the choice to stay out of the family business at seventeen when his girlfriend died in childbirth. He had a daughter to raise—Madison, or Madi as she likes to be called. He was a man of great patience and understanding and he never judged Clarke for making a different choice.

He was killed because of his association with her father's organization, Phoenix, just like the other victims. It was a targeted attack. The enemy knew where they worshiped. Madi was only spared because she had a cold and couldn't attend Mass.

That one fact bothers her the most.

Phoenix is an extremely secretive sect tied back to the Irish Republican Army that specializes in trade, assassinations, and soldiers. There's not a direct link to the IRA, especially in light of recent political movements, but that's where it got its origins.

Her father, Jake Griffin, is the current leader of Phoenix. He's reigned Clarke's entire life. In turn, she was raised to be a soldier and fitted to be the next leader until the death of her brother. Her father couldn't stand the idea of losing another child, so he exiled her to America. Clarke couldn't deny a direct order.

Her involvement with Phoenix is how she knows about Skaikru's dealings, and why, despite those dealings, they don't know her true identity. Her father set her up nicely, surrounded by people that might owe the IRA a favor for diplomatic purposes if she ever got into trouble.

Clarke thought he would come to his senses by now. He needs her.

A baby complicates things, though.

Clarke wants to scream, but she whispers, "I do understand."

Abby changes the subject, "What time is it there?"

"Around 3:45 AM. I'm supposed to leave soon so I can attend Father McKenna's memorial service."

Abby seems relieved, "So, you have been meeting your obligations, yes?"

"I have," Clarke says but the guilt lingers. She doesn't want to talk about her Catholic obligations."I've also been practicing ballet to stay sharp. It's not martial arts, but it will do."

Abby tries to placate her, "I miss you dearly. I'll tell your father that you called…and after we get through today, I'll try to convince him to bring you back."

She doesn't protest even though she should probably tell her mom that her plans have changed. Clarke can't take the questions, though. Also, she knows that her mother will be unsuccessful. Instead, she says, "I love you."

"I love you," Abby replies and ends the call.


	2. Chapter 2

"Father McKenna," Her accent feels heavy on her tongue. She hates the implication that she's adapting. If Father McKenna notices her internal struggle, he doesn't comment.

Father McKenna is forty-two years old with salt and pepper hair that is always tidy. He was the priest that christened Clarke when she was born, just as he was the priest that read her brother's last rites in tearful breaths. 

Her mother likes his company, although it's obvious that Abigail Griffin is of better faith than most of her family. Clarke can’t count the amount of times she’s come home from somewhere and found two teacups on the dining room table and her mother and the good Father pouring over obscure texts like a bunch of nerds. 

Father McKenna is a key member of Phoenix's intel team because people aren't naturally suspicious of him, but he’s softer than the other operatives—more in touch with his humanity. 

Clarke watched his sermon from the last pew with burning eyes as Father McKenna tried to explain what it was like when his home church was defiled.

It's not in her nature to shed a tear. Crying has always been the ultimate weakness and a luxury she couldn’t afford.

Her brother's murder is a point of contention because she cried the day it happened. 

She can remember the rawness that settled under her blunt fingernails. Her face was dirt and tear stained by the time she stopped digging through rubble and there was blood on her t-shirt because her stitches had torn. Her throat was hoarse from her hopeless pleas with a higher power. 

It was the worst day of her life. 

But the tears dried before Ethan was put to rest.

She couldn’t stop herself from strolling down memory lane as she listened to Father McKenna’s commentary on God’s plan. 

She hadn’t been home in months. Allies and enemies could feel the power shifting in Europe and Asia. Other organizations were getting restless and sometimes bold. Her father needed his best in the field. Her unit met those expectations tenfold.

Their missions ranged from information extraction, ally relations, and the occasional low-level assassination. 

Standard, really. 

Her mother was droning on about suturing techniques while Clarke leaned against the kitchen counter in their Dublin home, completely at her mercy. 

She’s never particularly liked their city home but it’s central to their other needs. 

Her father was making sure Madi was drinking her honey tea while spewing his thoughts on their botched mission. 

They were supposed to be at church but Clarke stumbled in the door bleeding and cursing with her concerned team minutes prior and Madi had a fever. 

The Russian intel group that Phoenix _tries_ not to work with was experiencing some internal leadership issues—and a general lack of manners.

They were making their counterparts uncomfortable. People were gossiping about war like it was inevitable.

Clarke’s unit was sent in to appease the son of a powerful, dying man with money, guns, and a trade deal worth their time.

Pressures rose after a few ill-timed smart remarks and she ended up getting stabbed by the son’s enforcer. All in a days work. 

Clarke was in awe of her father’s ability to smooth over **that** situation. Then again, her unusually high praise might have been due to the blood loss. 

Jake Griffin was in the middle of a long rant about the Russians and their shady habits—minus a few expletives because Madi was listening intently—when the phone rang.

Clarke knew someone was dead by the look on her father's face. She just didn't think it would be innocents. People she grew up with. People she prayed with. People she attended grade school with.

There's something to be said about the loss of childhood friends, but she hasn't found the words, yet.

Clarke went to the scene of the explosion, despite her mother's desperate protests and endless tears. She didn't understand that Clarke needed to go. Clarke had to see what she planned to avenge.

She had to visualize her anger. 

Clarke tried to be there for Madi when she wasn't self-destructing, but she was never quite able to say the right things.

Eventually, Jake Griffin exiled her to California for her own "well-being" because he was terrified that she would end up dead after two months of fighting her demons, and anyone else that looked at her wrong, in the field.

Listening to McKenna’s words gave her comfort despite the crushing weight of her memories. 

He's supposed to be dead, too. He lost people he loved, too. He had to pray over the bodies of people that were too young to die—teenagers, kids, babies. He had to break the tough news to families that had hoped that someone, _at least someone_ survived. 

Father McKenna reaches for Clarke's hands, grasping them in his own. It's a familiar notion to Clarke, but she’s never been on the receiving end of it. 

He used to grasp Jake's hands in the same manner when the Griffin patriarch actually attended church. 

McKenna plays up his role in front of his hosts. 

"I hoped you would come, child."

_Child_, Clarke thinks darkly, _I was never a fucking child._

"How could I resist a priest?" Clarke asks with a well-rehearsed smile. 

Father McKenna laughs, but it doesn't sound real. They’re putting on a show. 

The cathedral is located on an extremely busy street, designed to reach more pupils. It appears to have been an expensive project. It’s insanely large and detailed. 

She can't help but notice that most of the parish seems to be speaking other languages as they exit—mainly Russian, though.

Her eyes narrow with the realization, but she doesn't call attention to it right away.

Clarke and Father McKenna are standing on the back steps of the church, but the world around them can't be silenced. City life has integrated itself through the church campus in the most sickening of ways. 

Father McKenna interrupts her observations, releasing her hands, "You've talked to your mother?"

"Yes, Father," Clarke says mockingly.

Father McKenna continues to speak like an upstanding member of society, "My heart is with her today, as it is with most of our remaining congregation."

_A handful of sinners, killers, and drunks._

_I miss them._

Clarke wants to laugh out loud but she contains herself. Father McKenna's attention wavers as he watches the people exiting the church with interest. 

She quickly whispers, "Why has my father sent you to California?"

Much like every soldier in Phoenix, Father McKenna has little choice in what he does with his life. Jake Griffin gives orders and they're expected to be followed.

"I forgot how direct you are. You're just like him," Father McKenna says despondently, "Let's go for a walk."

She hums, raising her eyebrows, "You're deflecting."

Father McKenna leads her to an unoccupied stone bench in the Cathedral's expansive garden. The temperamental weather has killed most of the plant life, but it's still beautiful. Perfect for a day like this.

Clarke crosses her arms defiantly but takes a seat. He joins her, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his slacks. He offers her one, and boy does she want to take it, but she declines on account of her condition.

She's a little exhausted from the drive. Distantly, she wonders if her pregnancy factors into it. She's been trying not to think about it as if Father McKenna will read her mind and alert her entire family.

She wants to be spared from the Catholic-mother guilt trip, if only for a while.

"Your father doesn't want me to tell you," Father McKenna says outright and Clarke can't bite back her annoyance. 

She wants to be at home with her family. She deserves it. Clarke wants to tell Madi a story that will make her smile about Ethan. She wants to sit on the sofa with her mother and flip through her brother's baby book—and maybe, just maybe, ask her mother all the questions that she has about pregnancy and babies and life.

Her father has taken her identity from her because of fear and now he's conducting ops in her own backyard and she's not allowed to know why? It makes her want to discharge her weapon. Repeatedly. 

Fortunately, she's not carrying.

Clarke switches to a different tactic, "Well, I hope you can sleep safely knowing I'm going to endanger myself to find out."

Father McKenna swears as he pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a drag from his cigarette, "Only you, Clarke Elizabeth, could make a priest curse in the house of our Lord."

He takes another drag. Clarke looks at him expectantly. 

She doesn't realize how intimidating she appears at that moment. She can't see how her blonde hair whips around her face, or the coldness in her eyes.

Father McKenna surrenders, "I am following a lead on Russian movements."

"Ah, my favorite people,” Clarke’s not surprised. She kinda already worked that bit out, “They're lucky I didn’t scar."

He ignores her comment, just as he ignores most things, "We have concerns."

Clarke bites the inside of her cheek, positively annoyed, "My father negotiated peace a year ago exactly with Dante Wallace despite his son’s actions. They were well paid. What problems could they have?"

Father McKenna exhales, tossing the cigarette on the ground. It looks right at home. 

McKenna looks at her with desperate eyes, "Peace is often broken in times of new rule."

_So, it’s finally happened. Dante Wallace is dead._

"Phoenix thinks the Russians are weak right now because of a transition in power. Who is the next leader? We could ask the local Natashas, they know—"

"Clarke, please, _enough_. I can't defy your father. He doesn't want you involved,” Father McKenna is rarely stern, so his tone startles her. 

_Dante Wallace is going to be succeeded by a monster._

Hopefully not his dimwit son.

Father McKenna tries to steer the conversation in a different direction, "How are you?"

Clarke stands up too quickly and feels nauseous. This time she’s certain it’s stress. 

She speaks in an uneven tone, "I just want to go home—I deserve to be home with my family. Mum, dad, Madi…my team. My people. I just want to go home."

_But you can't go home_, the voice in the back of her head hisses, _your father won't need you once he finds out you're knocked up…all that wasted training. He'll be ashamed of you._

"What about your life here?"

Clarke minutely pouts and kicks the grass, "I don't want a life here."

_I don't have a life worth talking about._

"California is a wonderful place to relax. It’s safe, quiet. You can find peace here.”

Fear picks up in her chest.

_My fight isn't over._

"I'm not done, Father McKenna," Clarke says, hope getting the better of her. She continues stubbornly, "I spoke to my mother this morning, she sounded as if he could be swayed."

Father McKenna seems to hate his job more than usual as he struggles with his humanity and loyalty. He takes a defeated breath.

"Your mother hasn't been honest with you, then. Your father wants you out. It's a simple truth. Jake wants a better life for you that doesn't consist of death and darkness and anger."

Clarke remembers all the nights she spent training to be the perfect weapon. Her father taught her how to fight, and then he taught her how to kill. 

She recalls the first life that she ever took—a man that had crossed Phoenix. He wasn't particularly evil like some of her other marks. His partners just needed to be reminded that they were messing with the wrong people. Clarke was seventeen—and she didn't cry, or throw up, or blink when she pulled the trigger because he had hurt her family and she was serving justice.

Jake Griffin used to be proud of her for not flinching at the thought of war. He used to say that she was the best of them. And now what?

"I wasn't built for anything more," Clarke whispers and it's the closest she's come to a proper confession in some time. She doesn't trust the priest in Arkadia enough with her sins and she doesn’t have any friends. This is her truth, "I didn't follow every order—every fucking order—to end up here. I killed people. I tortured people. I did unimaginable things because that's what I was raised to do."

Clarke pulls aside the neckline of her formal black dress, revealing the tattoo she received at sixteen when it was time to grow up. It's a burning phoenix, something only an insider would recognize. There are many variations of the mark, but her family members all wear the same one. "I'm a Phoenix. I'm not supposed to be here. This is not my life. It's someone else's."

Father McKenna is silent for a few minutes while Clarke calms down. It's been some time since she was visibly affected by something. 

Her breakup with Bellamy was significantly less dramatic, but even then she can’t help but think about it.

McKenna tries to comfort her, "When you have your own children, you will understand why he’s doing this. I believe your father thought he was training you to survive in our world but now has accepted that you deserve to live—prosper, even in another. He has many regrets."

He stands up and offers her his hand. Clarke does not want to take it, but what choice does she have?

"Now, let's get something to eat and I'll tell you about your troublesome niece."

-x-

It's been three days since Clarke returned from Los Angeles and the bitter taste of exclusion has not left her mouth.

Father McKenna's words twirl around her mind in the most violent of ways because she knows he’s right—and that makes it worse.

The only relief she's had is teaching two evening dance classes for Margot.

Clarke’s been thinking of her unborn child and what it would be like to return to Ireland. Her mother would be disappointed, but she would soon accept it, just as she had when Ethan announced he would be a father.

Abigail Griffin might start a rumor that the baby's father had died rather than admit the truth. Clarke would be too ashamed to correct her in Dublin society. Her mother would dote on the baby though—boy or girl, although Clarke secretly likes to imagine the baby is a girl. She would be safe and protected and loved. And then, at four years old, her mother would insist on training and Clarke would have to break her child's spirit day after day until the pain becomes a dream and quick death becomes mercy.

These thoughts keep her awake at night. Even more so, the fact that it isn't much different here in Arkadia.

There’s still danger.

Clarke would still be labeled a whore, but by much more vicious mouths. She would work at a diner instead of Phoenix—and then there's the Bellamy of it all. Would he be a good father? Clarke wants to say yes because of her personal feelings for him, but the truth is, she doesn't know. Alright, maybe she does know and she's not prepared for the full answer.

Because he might be a better parent than her.

His line of work isn't much different than hers. Clarke just gets to travel more. And kill more.

Then she thinks of Harper and Monty and Jordan…

They make it work.

"It's dead in here," Wick calls from behind the counter as he makes himself a roast beef sandwich.

Clarke’s grateful for the peace because it gives her time to research without interruption. Harper has been sitting at the bar with a notebook and a laptop for the last thirty minutes while Clarke has been scrolling through a list of OBGYNs in the area.

Okay, well, if she's being honest, she stopped looking through that list ten minutes ago and switched to stalking the most appealing doctors' social media accounts to make sure they're not weird, psychotic or closeted alcoholics.

If she could have the best of both worlds, her mother would be her doctor and she would give birth at home just like she did. 

Clarke's never been a fan of hospitals, but she needs to be responsible. It isn't about her anymore. It can't be about her. It has to be about giving her child the best chance in the world and right now that's going to be a doctor with at least half a brain.

So far, the results aren’t promising.

A text pops up on her phone from Wells. It reads, _"Hey...want to get dinner tonight?"_

Clarke swipes out of it.

"Maybe we should close early," Wick hums, waiting for someone to agree. He’s being weird. For starters, he's wearing his kutte at work, which typically means something is going to happen.

Secondly, he detests closing early because he needs a certain amount of profit to properly launder. 

His odd behavior gets under her skin, but not because she's worried about her boss. It bothers her because it means Bellamy is most likely doing something stupid.

Harper sighs, putting down her pen, "You don't have to pretend like you don't have plans, Kyle."

"You aren't supposed to know about them," Wick grumbles like a spoiled child.

"Says who?"

"Says me."

The two stop bickering when they remember they aren't alone. 

Clarke has the urge to disappear into the worn wallpaper of the diner for eternity. She continues looking at her phone as if she hasn't noticed anything. 

Her fingers rapidly whisk through the Instagram feed of an OBGYN an hour away.

Wick finally makes a judgment call, "Okay, let's clean up and close down."

Clarke follows orders and does her side work. Harper flips the sign on the door and joins her in wiping down the counters and reorganizing chairs. 

Harper starts, "About last week... I really am sorry for intruding."

"Well, you were right," Clarke says before she can stop herself. It's unlike her to share personal details, but her brain is over five thousand miles away at the moment. Her eyes widen briefly when she realizes her mistake. To keep up appearances, she continues to clean as if she never opened her mouth.

Harper just watches her, utterly dumbfounded.

"Uh…" Harper manages after a few seconds pass, "I- I don't know what to say. Last week I had this entire speech prepared but now it seems stupid? Wow." 

Clarke looks over her shoulder and notices that Wick is outside smoking a cigarette and eating his sandwich while talking on the phone. 

She fakes a smile, "Why don't you tell me what doctor you went to when you were pregnant with Jordan?"

Harper visibly relaxes, "Okay…okay, I went to Jackson. Uh, Doctor Eric Jackson. I highly recommend him and he's gay, so it's not weird when he's down there, you know?"

"I didn't see his information online."

"Well, it's a small town so he doesn't really need to do a lot of online selling. If you get pregnant, you go to him. Beforehand, it was his father. Now, he was a little weird,” Harper is overdoing it with the chatter, but it doesn’t bother Clarke.

Harper is the first person that she's told, and she only feels mildly guilty about it. In a sense, she knows that Bellamy should have been the first person but every time she tries to call him, she falters.

Harper adds, "Miller and Eric have been dating for a long time, too, so he's tight with the club."

Clarke clears her throat nervously, "I wasn't looking for anyone affiliated with Skaikru."

Harper's a lot quicker than she looks, because she responds, "So, you haven't told Bellamy, yet?"

She sucks in a deep breath, "No."

"But you are going to tell him?"

Clarke stops cleaning, "Of course I'm going to tell him. I just haven't found the right moment."

"You want to keep the baby, right?"

She almost says something along the lines of _I'm Catholic, so yes_, but the words don't feel right. Clarke agrees that a woman should have the right to choose. She's also known many Phoenix women that have chosen to terminate their pregnancies because of the job.

It's something she understands, especially after months of grueling, unsavory tasks. Clarke isn't just keeping the baby because of her religion.

There's a gnawing feeling in her chest lately. One she's never felt before.

For instance, when she was covering for Margot, she thought about teaching her hypothetical daughter ballet. Clarke would let her wear the fluffiest pink tutus. She would make sure it was fun. Clarke doesn't want to raise a warrior. She wants to raise a human being.

Clarke's at peace with becoming a mother.

"Yeah, I want to keep the baby," Clarke responds somewhat elated.

Harper shoots her a radiant grin and starts to ramble, "Okay, well, congratulations. Being a mom is great…but being a single mom is hard. I couldn't imagine doing it on my own. You need to tell Bellamy before he finds out. This town is too small to keep a secret, especially when you start going to the doctors or your boobs get bigger. It won't be pretty if he hears it from someone else."

_Jesus Christ._

-X-

Clarke doesn't run into Bellamy for another two days, and that's entirely by design. It's almost been a week since she found out that she's pregnant, but she hasn't figured out how to broach to subject with him.

Hell, she barely knows how she feels about it other than the fact that she's doing it.

Harper's been giving out advice like candy and has become Clarke's greatest resource on all things morning sickness related. Thankfully Harper's not pushing her to tell Bellamy about the baby just yet. Honestly, she needs time to figure things out before she has to deal with Bellamy's reaction.

Clarke scheduled an appointment with Dr. Jackson for next Tuesday because it's her day off. Harper offered to go with her but Clarke declined. 

She's already nervous about going to an American doctor, she doesn't want to make it worse by bringing her new friend along.

Besides, she plans to tell Bellamy tomorrow before the club's weekly dinner at The Dropship.

Clarke would pull him aside quickly and tell him that she's pregnant and then leave. He wouldn't follow her because of the Echo situation and then he would have time to process her confession. It's a cowardly plan, but it's the best one she has at the moment. 

Clarke doesn't want to stick around for Bellamy's full reaction because she's worried it won't align with her overly optimistic vision of co-parenting as responsible individuals.

Unfortunately, her entire plan goes to shit when Bellamy comes into the diner on Friday by himself. Wick opens his mouth to tell Clarke to leave, but Bellamy holds up a hand, "She can stay. It's fine."

_Domineering as ever._

He smiles at her in a characteristically effortless way. Harper must sense Clarke's tension because she's suddenly by her side. Harper sweeps Clarke's hair away from her face. 

Oddly, Clarke thinks Harper must have an affectionate mother.

Clarke is standing behind the counter, essentially twiddling her thumbs until it's time to go. Harper stops trying to comfort her with an awkward smile. Bellamy regards the women closely, an eyebrow raised in an unspoken question. Clarke sucks in a deep breath and averts her eyes.

Harper turns on Bellamy with a dispassionate smile, "What brings you here tonight?"

"Wick's gorgeous face," Bellamy says with a wink to lighten the mood, but Harper scowls.

Clarke doesn't acknowledge the exchange. Her mind is counting music, _one, two, three, four, one-two, three-four, and one, two, three four…_

It doesn't do shit for her nerves and she's pissed because she's used this method for years to relieve her anxiety. Before moving to California, she reserved it for special things like precarious business meetings and guaranteed carnage.

Bellamy surprisingly buckles under Harper's glare, "I needed a break from my mother's constant nagging. Went to the bar, now I'm here. Ever since I moved back to the clubhouse, she's been a pain in the ass."

Wick grimaces and pours Bellamy a cup of coffee, "Yeah, but it beats living with Octavia while she dates all the available bachelors in town."

Clarke knows that the coffee is cold because it was brewed hours ago. She toys with the idea of making a fresh pot for him but she beats it to submission. He's got a whole girlfriend for that now. Bellamy takes a sip and doesn't spit it out.

_Oh, he's drunk._

Clarke's surprised when Bellamy doesn't jump to Octavia's defense. The whole town knows that she's been dating more than usual. Something about independence and rebellion. Octavia's only two years younger than Clarke, but it's difficult for Clarke not to view her as a child.

Wick looks like he wants to shoot his friend when Bellamy turns his attention back to Clarke. Bellamy implores her, searching for something she can't define. He shouldn't look at her like that, not when his heart belongs to someone else. Wick waves a hand in front of Bellamy's face, "Hey, leave my waitresses alone, man. I don't want any trouble with Echo."

"She'll survive," Bellamy takes another sip of coffee, this time grimacing.

The tension is too thick.

Clarke speaks up, "Is it okay if I leave?"

Wick looks relieved, "Yeah, that's fine. I'll just reject Wells for you tonight."

"Thanks," Clarke whispers, not commenting on Wells Jaha, and heads for the supply closet.

Clarke originally planned to dance tonight but now she's not in the mood. She just wants to go home, crawl into her bed, and sleep until her alarm clock goes off tomorrow morning.

She slings the duffel's strap over her shoulder and walks out the back door without saying anything. A few moments later, she hears the door ease open behind her. Clarke recognizes the sound of Bellamy's heavy footsteps.

He clears his throat, assuming that she's unaware of his presence, "We don't have to keep doing this, Clarke. Not like this."

Clarke wants to laugh even though the situation isn't funny. It's tragic in all sorts of ways, and Bellamy doesn't have a clue.

Instead, he's chasing after her because his girlfriend isn't actively preventing him from speaking to her. Clarke turns around to face him and he's smirking at her as if he's already won.

_So bloody annoying_, she thinks, but it tampers down the rage inside of her.

"You can't look at me like that anymore," Clarke tells him firmly because it's the right thing to do.

He's closing the distance between them with comfortable, slow steps. Bellamy holds up his hands like he's calming a wild animal. He calmly asks, "Like what?"

_Like you don't know._

"Like you want me."

"What if I do?"

Clarke frowns, impervious, "Then you have a funny way of showing it."

"I could prove it to you."

"Where's Echo, hmm?" Clarke says and Bellamy looks dismayed by the reminder. A part of her wants to be angry because of the principle. He has a girlfriend; he shouldn't be trying to seduce her in a diner parking lot. Hell, is girlfriend even the right word to use? Bellamy has a submissive that loves him.

The part of her that wants him—needs him—recognizes their chemistry. She's happier when she's with him. But it's not about her anymore and she's not going to let him make her some modern-day Hester Prynne.

Clarke's jaw clenches as she tries to compose herself. She bites out, "You're the one that wanted to work things out with your ex. I'm no one's mistress, Bellamy."

Bellamy runs his long fingers through his hair and she takes notice. He's frustrated by something, maybe what's been going on with Skaikru. He says, "I didn't mean to offend you. I just miss you, okay? I'm allowed to do that, right? We had a good friendship and now we don't even speak to each other."

"You're committed to Echo. She's your sub, right? She doesn't want me around, so you have to respect that or you're failing her. Maybe if you stopped—" Clarke wants to tell him to stop watching her all the time. Stop caring. Stop trying to intertwine himself in her life but the words don't come out because she's not really sure that's what he's doing or if that's what she hopes has been going on. Instead, she mumbles, "Doesn't matter how I feel."

"Echo and I...we're not compatible in that way." Bellamy explains, but it's clear he doesn't want to talk about it, "That's why we broke up the first time."

Clarke finally laughs, not believing that this is what they're wasting their breath on. They've been running around in circles for two months. If he had reached out before her flipping over that test, they might be having a different conversation right now but she can't compromise herself for his sake. It doesn't matter how she feels about it. She starts to walk away, "I don't have time for this. "

"Please, Clarke. I want you in my life." Bellamy calls after her, vulnerability evident in his voice. She's never heard him sound so weak. She tells herself that it's because he's been drinking. He continues, "I've been going crazy not being able to talk to you. I'm tired of following the goddamn rules. Why the fuck are you walking away from this?"

"You made your choice," Clarke stops and turns back to him, "I'm pregnant, Bellamy. I can't be your fool anymore."

Bellamy doesn't respond, but he looks quite pale. She wonders if he's going to throw up.

"And, before you ask, it's yours."

He mumbles, "I need a fucking drink."

Clarke watches as he walks away, feeling like a total idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, sorry to leave on a Cliffhanger but there will be more soon!! Let me know what you think and what you hope to see in the future!


	3. Chapter 3

"And all he said was, _I need a fucking drink_?" Harper is highly irate as Clarke recounts what happened outside the diner. Clarke can tell she's on speakerphone. Every now and then she hears Jordan chatting in the background. Clarke assumes that Harper told Monty everything. She's not upset. She mainly finds it endearing that Harper's best friend is her husband.

Clarke shrugs as she catches her reflection in the television screen across her bedroom. Her medium length hair is piled on top of her head, and the shirt that she's wearing falls off one shoulder.

Her eyes trace her Phoenix tattoo. Clarke has a few other tattoos; a gryphon on her ribs, a black clover on her hip, and a Coptic symbol on her wrist. They're little breadcrumb clues, sure, but if she's ever blown up then they might be able to identify her corpse.

Clarke knows that the reason she isn't too beat up about Bellamy's reaction is that being pregnant can never be compared to being part of the IRA and lying about it for almost a year.

And it's not like she told him in a controlled environment.

Everyone deserves an initial bad reaction. Clarke's withholding judgment until after Bellamy has collected himself. Once he's sober and willing to talk, then she'll see how he feels.

"He was probably hoping our conversation would lead somewhere else." She can't dock him for feeling shocked, or angry, or confused. They did everything right when they were sleeping together. She insisted that they use protection every single time.

Clarke also didn't have a direct fear of getting pregnant. When she was younger, she frequently used a birth control shot to minimize periods in the field. Clarke hated the way the extra hormones made her feel, so she quit. Later, all the negative side effects of the shot were revealed, one being infertility. Her cycle never returned to normal and at the time, Clarke didn't care. It suited her better.

So, a baby was the last thing she expected.

"Oh, like doing things that make babies?" Harper offers sarcastically, already punishing Bellamy. "Honestly, I expected—"

Clarke hears her other phone ringing from the nightstand by her bed. Mentally, she calculates the time difference: it's after 10:30 PM in California, but that means it's only 6:30 AM in Ireland and already Saturday. Clarke picks up the phone, no longer listening to what Harper is ranting about. The incoming number has Russian formatting. Clarke hastily says, "Hey, someone else is calling me. I'll text you later."

"Alr—"

Clarke hangs up, switching to the flip phone, "Hello?"

At first, all she hears is heavy breathing. Okay, creepy and dramatic. Her skin prickles in anticipation because there's no way this is a coincidence. Father McKenna's sent to California to monitor the Russians—and now this? Clarke mentally starts counting down the seconds that she has left before the call can be traced.

Not that it fucking matters if they have her burner number.

An eerily familiar voice rings in her ear, "I like the new look, my love, but I preferred your long hair."

Cage.

Phoenix's Russian counterpart calls themselves "Mountain Men" (in the English translation), or the _Gornyye Muzhchiny._ Clarke prefers Mountain Men because it makes them sound as pathetic as they genuinely are. Dante Wallace was their leader. Cage Wallace is his son.

Clarke's father likes to say the only thing that separates Phoenix and the Mountain Men is a code of ethics. There are some lines that Phoenix won't cross.

Cage Wallace is one of the worst people Clarke has ever met and the list is quite extensive. Dante spoiled him, fed into his urges. He created a monster that can't function without notoriety and praise. Sadly, Cage is obsessed with Clarke despite being significantly older than her.

He's been asking her to marry him since she was seventeen. She's heard the worst excuses in the book from combining empires to producing powerful children, and of course, because of her "irresistible" beauty. Last time she said no, she ended up with a knife in her side "in the heat of the moment".

"Are you trying to scare me? I don't frighten easily." Clarke says calmly. Somehow this phone call is easier than the one she just ended. It's conventional for her life.

Every now and then, the bad guys get bold and think they have the upper hand. Still, this means someone has been watching her. Then she remembers that she put herself in their view last week when she went to Los Angeles. Perhaps Father McKenna wasn't as discreet as he needed to be. Cage must have gotten word that she's in California with McKenna, although she imagines he is quite ticked with the lack of information he has about her movements over the last ten months.

She was careful upon arrival. Nothing is tracing back to her current location except this phone, and she'll be sure to ditch it.

He laughs at her.

She's almost out of time.

"You can tell your father that I am King now and I am not interested in his peace without you—"

Clarke hangs up before she runs out of time, knowing what he's asking for. It doesn't matter that he's a total idiot, Cage is still a threat. And now he has a lead.

She snaps her phone in half. Any decent hacker could have bugged it by now. Clarke uses her personal phone to call home. It's risky, sure, but she doesn't have a good alternative.

The phone rings and rings. Clarke fidgets from the build-up of nervous energy. She's about to give up when her father answers, voice rough, "Why aren't you using your burner phone?"

"Cage Wallace has my secure line. Didn't want to risk exposure. I think that warranted a conversation," Her voice is flat when she explains her actions. Jake Griffin is a complicated man. He's a good leader and a good father, but sometimes he can't handle the balance. She adds, "He said he's not interested in peace."

The last time they talked she ended up screaming for five minutes before he hung up. She asked to come home, he denied her.

Jake Griffin exhales and she can hear the stress in his voice when he replies, "I will take this information into account. I'll send a new burner soon."

"I think he's been watching Father McKenna." Clarke ignores him as if he didn't just disvalue her input once again, "I know McKenna was looking into the Russians and if Cage is onto him, he's in danger. You need to bring him home now."

Clarke has overstepped. She knows it as she says it.

Jake raises his voice, exasperated, "The last time I checked, I was still in charge, Clarke. I give the orders. I make the tough calls. You'll do well to remember it."

"Dad, wait—"

The call drops.

Clarke listens to the silence for a few moments, a plea trapped on her lips.

-x-

Clarke hates to admit it, but she's gotten used to the relatively peaceful nature of Arkadia. As much as she wanted to remain perceptive, Arkadia lulled her into a state of mind not indicative of constant danger.

Today's the first day since she moved to California that she's carrying a weapon on her person—not that she ever needs a weapon, and not that any type of weapon would save her if the Russians truly wanted her dead.

Snipers are inconvenient.

Two butterfly blades are tucked in her boots. Clarke spent the morning sharpening them in her kitchen. She initially wanted to bring a gun but she thought that might raise some eyebrows. It doesn't help that her prized toys are in storage, except for her service weapon. Her father took that away when he exiled her.

The Dropship is quiet except for a couple arguing in the back booth. Clarke doesn't have time for their issues, she's got her own to contend with. It's almost closing time and Wick is starting to prepare for his brothers. Apparently, this week's menu consists of hotdogs. For once, she's grateful he always banishes her because she doesn't want to deal with the consequences of last night.

Throughout her shift, she's reminded herself more than once to calm down. Her posture is too rigid, too ready for a fight. Her main issue is finding the medium between her life in Arkadia and her Phoenix instincts. Clarke feels incredibly threatened with Cage Wallace as King of the Mountain Men, but only because he's proven the lengths he's willing to go to in the past.

She needs to stay alert and aware, which requires her to compartmentalize everything in her life—her father's latest rejection, that gnawing feeling, her pregnancy, the Bellamy of it all...

Clarke needs to push it down until it's a hum in the back of her mind. But under Harper's scrutiny, she has to be normal. Clarke has to care about Bellamy's reaction and her upcoming doctor's appointment, or she'll know something isn't right.

Wells Jaha walks in with a grin on his face, relieved to see Clarke. She wonders if he stopped by last night after she left. She's been dodging his texts all week, coming up with lame excuses for her lack of response.

Clarke finds solace in the fact that another firearm will be in reaching distance in case the diner is stormed. Statistically, Wells is more likely to hand over his gun than Wick would. Plus, Wick keeps his Glock in his tiny office when he's cooking.

Wells sits down at the counter in front of her, and orders what he always does: a BLT with a side of fries. Extra tomato. Clarke scribbles the order down for Wick just in case he forgets.

"So, any plans tomorrow?" He asks casually as Clarke pours him a cup of overheated coffee. At least it isn't old. And no, she didn't brew a fresh pot of it because Bellamy's due any minute.

The last thing she wants to do is fake conversation, but she doesn't have much of a choice. Truthfully, she thinks Wells is a great guy but every now and then she wishes he could take a hint. Jesus Christ, they should have covered this in basic law enforcement training. She responds, tight-lipped, "I don't."

Clarke hears the bell ding and recognizes the shuffle of boots against the tile. Club members. Clarke pretends she's not interested but she can feel her cheeks heating.

"No Mass?" Wells asks, completely intrigued with her change in habit, "Isn't that a sin?"

Clarke smiles sweetly, fingers playing with the coffee pot handle while she avoids Skaikru. It takes her a moment to respond because she doesn't quite know what to say. Clarke doesn't want to go to Mass because that's where she is expected to be on Sundays. Everyone knows that about her.

She's also an unmarried pregnant woman and would like to reframe from thoroughly pissing off God until further notice. Clarke's pretty sure she's done enough damage. She settles with, "Ah, what's life without a little sin?"

Wells straightens up, wrongly assuming Clarke is flirting with him.

"Since you don't have plans, would you like to go—"

"Jaha, we need to talk." Bellamy rudely interrupts, leaning his side against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest. Clarke momentarily meets his eyes and they're on fire—a fire that would usually cause her to take her clothes off, but tonight it scares her. He's grasping for control.

Bellamy is unpredictable and the exact type of chaos she doesn’t need if she is going to maintain her concentration on survival.

Wells and Bellamy don't like each other because that's how the justice system works in America. Wells is a police officer; Bellamy is an outlaw. The two are much like oil and water.

Distantly, she wonders if Skaikru has tried to bribe Jaha before—and even then, she wonders if they have managed to extort Thelonious Jaha considering they're still welcomed in Arkadia. She knows something is going on there but she's never investigated.

Wells is annoyed because he's been "cockblocked". Clarke likes to pretend their hatred towards each other thoroughly concerns morals and values, but she knows that Wells took it hard when he found out that they were sleeping together. Wells growls, "I don't have anything to say to you, Blake."

He might as well have called Bellamy _trash_.

Clarke gives Bellamy a warning look that is entirely uncharacteristic of her. It's the type of look that she would give a former team member before a mission if they were about to screw up. Her friend Roan comes to mind. Bellamy doesn't show any inclination of giving up.

"Back off, Bellamy," Clarke says tightly and she's grateful her false accent doesn't slip.

Skaikru is watching the situation unfold. The President, Marcus Kane, doesn't look pleased with Bellamy's behavior. On the other hand, Nathan Miller and John Murphy—who is also Irish, but has never shown signs of knowing who Clarke is—appear thoroughly amused. Jasper and Monty look outright concerned. Monty keeps looking over at Harper knowingly, but neither one tries to step in.

Bellamy is showing his true form and they're just following along with his biased convictions.

"It's okay, Clarke," Wells says and she wants to smack him. He thinks that she's defending him when she's merely protecting him. He thinks this is about one situation when it's about an entirely different one. Wells believes that Bellamy is trying to pick an argument because he tried to intervene in Skaikru's business handlings.

In reality, Bellamy is being territorial. He never liked Wells' persistence, even when Bellamy and Clarke were hooking up. She could tell how much Wells' advances pissed him off but Bellamy always kept his mouth shut because he didn't have the right to tell Clarke how to handle her personal life. But things are different now that she's pregnant.

They've skipped go, collected $200 and ended up in a rather precarious position.

Wells' entire body is relaxed except for his dominant arm. Clarke eyes his hand, knowing that he's reaching for his weapon. Bellamy keeps inching closer, crowding Wells.

Bellamy rambles off something irrelevant and Clarke wants to roll her eyes, "I've seen you outside of the garage, watching us—waiting for a reason to use your shiny little handcuffs so you can prove that you're not on anyone's payroll."

"Yeah, well—" Wells starts but is cut off by Clarke. She's tired of the stupidity.

"Alright, enough! Wick, Wells is taking his dinner to-go. You—" Clarke doesn't know how she's maintaining her accent. She points at Bellamy, "—come outside with me. Now."

Clarke takes the Jake Griffin approach to solving problems. Yelling over people and tossing around orders that sound more like threats always works for him.

She tells herself that this was the easiest solution, even as everyone watches her step away from the counter. There's a slight swing in her step as she heads towards the side door. She doesn't bother to hold it open for Bellamy.

"What in the hell is wrong with you?" Clarke hisses, surveying the small parking lot for any unwanted guests or unfamiliar vehicles. She doesn't see anything suspicious, but that doesn't mean there's not a threat. She spins around, facing Bellamy.

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance, "It isn't your problem."

"When would it be my problem, Bellamy?" Clarke asks, the exhaustion evident in her voice. She's not used to seeing this level of self-destructiveness from him. Bellamy's always in control. Naturally, she blames herself. Her eyes fall to her feet as she continues questioning him, "I don't want to tell our child that their dad is dead because of some stupid, baseless argument. That's not fair."

"You want me in the baby's life?" Bellamy asks hesitantly, a small amount of hope on his face. She feels guilty for debating if Bellamy would want to be involved. Of course, he'd want to be there for his child.

They stand in silence for several seconds while they try to read each other's minds. Clarke considers walking away and taking a breather. Lately, her first response with Bellamy seems to be running away.

Bellamy exhales, nervously running his fingers through his hair, "I'm not like you, Clarke."

"Like what?"

"Good," Bellamy kicks the pavement with the toe of his boots. He's frustrated with the conversation, "I'm not good. I've done things you couldn't—I've done things, okay?"

_Me too_.

Clarke unhelpfully says, "Everyone has demons. Even me."

Bellamy scoffs because he doesn't believe her demons could contend with the ones inside of him. _Honey, mine could eat yours for breakfast._

"You'd be better off with someone like Jaha, you know? Stable job, rich parents...he's better for you. I'll only bring you down."

When did they start talking about them?

"Well, I don't want him," Clarke says confidently, her implications clear. She shouldn't be going down this route, but she doesn't feel guilty like she thought she would.

"Oh, yeah? What do you want, Clarke?" He's daring her to cross the line. Bellamy takes a step closer, and when she doesn't back away, he takes another until they're mere inches apart. She closes her eyes, inhaling the sweet scent of smoke and his cologne. His thumb rests against her bottom lip. He murmurs, "What do you want?"

_You._

_Happiness._

_A purpose._

She hears a car door slam at the front of the diner. The spell he has her under breaks. Clarke pulls away from him, cheeks heating with shame.

She sounds pathetic when she says, "I can't do this."

Crestfallen, he curtly nods, "I understand."

"I want you to be part of our child's life. I know you have responsibilities with the club and I can accept that." Clarke takes another step away from him, emphasizing her next point, "But as long as you're with Echo, we aren't going down memory lane again."

Bellamy's disappointed and she doesn't know why. The idea that he's trying to have his cake and eat it too pisses her off but she shoves it down for later. He nods, "Okay, if that's what you want."

She doesn't ask him to elaborate. Clarke's not sure she can take the answer.

"I have an appointment on Tuesday if you want to come." Clarke fidgets with her apron. She hates her newfound nervous habits, "I want you to come."

He returns her smile, but it doesn't reach his brown eyes, "I'll be there. Just text me the details."

"Are you sure?"

Bellamy sighs, "Echo's going to have to get used to it. Don't worry about it, Clarke."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, new chapter. What is your reaction??


	4. Chapter 4

Clarke knows that Dr. Eric Jackson's office is located on the edge of Arkadia near the highway. She's pulled the directions three times out of sheer nervousness. She wants to approach her pregnancy like she would any other mission, but she's discovered that it's surprisingly difficult. Her emotions are clouding her judgment. It doesn't help that Bellamy threw a grenade in her well-laid plans. Originally, she was supposed to meet him at the doctor's office, but he texted her this morning asking to drive.

She almost declined because she didn't want to deviate and because she doesn't think they should be spending any time with each other alone. Her former team members used to complain about her bull-headedness in the field. She realized that she can't shut Bellamy out because of her anxiety without there being consequences. She needs to let him feel like he's _helping _in some way.

He's a little early.

Clarke watches Bellamy park his bike through a small crack in her curtains. She bites the inside of her cheek, tilting her head as she watches him look down her street. Maybe he's worried one of his friends will see them together and run back to Echo or his mother. He gets off the bike and starts walking to her front door. _Oh, shit._

She glances over her shoulder at the open wooden crates she brought from storage last night. Clarke's spent a significant amount of her time cleaning and reassembling her weapons. It's the only thing that's eased her tension about Cage Wallace. The last thing she needs is Bellamy walking in and discovering that she's more complicated than he could have ever imagined.

Clarke grabs her keys and purse, quickly walking outside, slamming the dark green door behind her so hard that it hits her backside. Bellamy looks amused with her unusual behavior. She flushes and blows her hair away from her face. He closes the distance, helping her fix her hair with a chuckle. She feels slightly self-conscious under his gaze, remembering the last time they were this close.

They almost kissed.

She wants to kiss him.

Clarke wants to slide her hands under the fitted black thermal he's wearing, and run her finger down his spine. If she's being totally honest, she wants to take off his jeans, too. They're hanging off his hips in the most decadent of ways. Her brain isn't playing by the rules today. Is it too soon to blame her hormones?

"Like what you see?" Bellamy groans and Clarke's almost sucked in by the simple allure of his body, of his voice. In her life, she's grown used to not getting what she wants. Clarke wishes she never tasted him because then she would not know the temptation of his skin or the things that she has been missing. Suddenly, her mind is replaying a thousand biblical lessons about falling into sin.

_Don't cross that line._

She takes a deep breath and pushes past him, trotting down the stairs.

"I wish you would stop running away from _me._"

Clarke scoffs, biting down her rebuttal because repeatedly bringing up how he chose to get back with Echo is going to drive her crazy. She closes her eyes, exhales, and then checks her surroundings. All the cars belong to her neighbors. There aren't any strange people occupying the streets. She releases the breath she was holding, but the tension remains.

"I don't think your outfit is appropriate for a ride."

Clarke's wearing a navy blue silk blouse, skinny jeans and a pair of tan knee-high boots. The only reason she decided to wear boots is because she needed a way to conceal her butterfly knives. Objectively, there's nothing wrong with her outfit but Bellamy's always been weird about it.

"You think I'm getting on the back of your motorcycle?" Clarke peers over her shoulder and raises an eyebrow teasingly.

The way he grins says it all.

Clarke lowly laughs at him, then _tsks_ mockingly, "We're taking my car."

Bellamy glares at the black Toyota Prius sitting in her driveway with disdain, possibly even abhorrence. Clarke dangles her keys at him. He frowns for a moment, then asks, "Are you trying to ruin my reputation?"

Clarke humorously rolls her eyes at him, "What reputation?"

Bellamy narrows his eyes at her and she swallows because she knows what he's thinking. He wants to spank her for being rude. Clarke's deviant subconscious tells her to let him. Jesus Christ, she wants him to punish her. Right here, right now. Maybe she just needs to get him out of her system properly. _God, you're an idiot._

He walks down the steps separating them, hands up to mollify her, "You know, your eyes are very telling, Clarke."

_Only to you._

She breathily says, "Bellamy, we can't."

"Yeah, I know. Trust me, I know."

Clarke clumsily asks, "Do you want me to drive?"

Bellamy composes himself, even manging a smirk, "I've seen you drive, babe, and we need to minimize all risks from here on out."

She hands over her keys, allowing their fingers to touch for a slight second. It was stupid. Fortunately, Bellamy looks as equally conflicted as she is right now. As much as she wants to forget everything and focus solely on impending parenthood and her problems with Cage, her brain keeps blurring the lines. Bellamy opens the passenger door for her. Clarke can barely breathe when he shuts her door.

She watches as he adjusts the driver's seat and her mirrors. He sighs when he is settled and pushes the start button. The Prius beeps and comes alive, the backup cameras flicking on. Clarke turns to him, trying to facilitate non-sexual conversation, "So, you think I'm safer on your motorcycle than driving my car?"

Bellamy deadpans, "Absolutely. You're a goddamn nightmare."

The drive is uneventful, disregarding everything they're not talking about. Clarke's worried about the appointment. There's so much that she doesn't know because of her past medical issues. For starters, she's completely unaware how far along she happens to be. Before Bellamy pulled the plug, they were hooking up at least twice a week, sometimes more.

Her fingers play with her locket. There's a picture of her family on one side and a picture of her team on the other. Abby gave it to her so she wouldn't lose herself in the field. She has, though. Clarke didn't expect to meet someone like Bellamy. If she could set the clock back, she would have just walked away. It would have saved her a lot of heartache and humiliation.

She tries to focus on something else.

Motherhood.

Irrationally, she's worried that Doctor Jackson will take one look at her and decide that she's unfit. Like he'll be able to see through all her masks, seeing the darkness that festers within. On the other hand, she's worried something is wrong—like a tubal pregnancy. Clarke hates to admit that she has already gotten attached. What if she's falling in love with something that'll never happen? How does someone handle that type of loss?

Her eyes follow the signs on the side of the road. Arkadia's a traditional small town and highly unimpressive in her book. She'd trade anything to jump on a train, Dublin's DART, and head towards Bray. It's beautiful there. Peaceful. When she was younger, she used to draw the landscape but then she ran out of time. Life called her away.

Bellamy interrupts her thoughts, "It's okay to be anxious, Clarke."

Her instincts speak for her, "I'm fine."

Bellamy nods tightly, "Sure."

Clarke continues to twist her necklace until Bellamy's hand pulls her fingers away. She doesn't know what to say when he intertwines their fingers. Their hands rest on the center console and she finds comfort in the gesture. His hands are rough from years of manual labor. When he's not running guns and making deals with other organizations, he works as a mechanic at Kane Repairs. She's never seen him work (because his family did not want her around) but she imagines it's quite spectacular.

It's not the first time they've held hands, but it feels different.

_He's just being a good friend, that's why._

She quietly says, "You're really great at this."

"I have a sister."

_Great._

Clarke lets go of his hand when he pulls the car into the parking lot. There are only two other vehicles occupying spaces and suddenly she feels a lot better about the appointment knowing she won't be exposed to the entire community. She doesn't wait for Bellamy to open her door. Clarke needs to be strong.

The office reminds her of Abby's at-home medical suite. It's comforting. The weight of her mother's absence is heavy on her chest. Abigail Griffin administered all of her vaccines and took care of her every time she was sick. Clarke's been stitched up by her mother's skillful hands more times than she can count, and when Clarke regularly started going out in the field, it was her mother that taught her basic emergency medicine. It feels wholly wrong to be dealing with such an important and defining milestone without her.

"I'll go check-in," Clarke grumbles, directing Bellamy towards the waiting room chairs. He doesn't protest and finds a seat easily. Clarke walks to the receptionist's window and attempts a warm smile that doesn't land. She's killed people with her bare hands, but she's struggling to function in a doctor's office of all places. "Hi, I have an appointment under Clarke Gr-Chase."

The bored receptionist doesn't seem to notice her blunder. Her nametag reads _Zoe. _Clarke decides that she likes her because she won't be paying much attention to what's going on.

"Just fill out the papers and bring them back," Zoe monotonously instructs as she hands Clarke a tattered clipboard and a pen advertising Bill's Grocers.

Clarke nods and joins Bellamy in the waiting area. She clicks the pen and starts to read down the list. It does make her feel slightly guilty when she realizes her first answer is an outright lie. She scribbles in her name. The second answer isn't a lie, although, in retrospect, it probably should be if a psychopath like Cage Wallace is after her. _Too late now_, she bitterly thinks as she writes down her birthday.

Bellamy leans over so he can peek at her answers. She holds the clipboard a little closer to her chest when she skips the insurance section and goes straight to the information about her menstrual cycle, weight, and height. Clarke fills in the blanks with ease until she gets to the _What was the start date of your last period?_ question.

After some deep thinking, Clarke estimates her last period at five months ago—although she knows there is no way that she's five months pregnant. Her body would have started to change by now and she would be dealing with a lot more than mildly sore breast and morning sickness. Clarke has to be further along than seven weeks because that's how long it's been since Bellamy got back with Echo.

Bellamy's gravelly voice startles her when he points out, "That's five months."

"Stop reading my information."

He shifts in his seat, "I have questions, okay?"

Clarke relaxes, knowing that's she being slightly difficult, "Okay, like what?"

"We used protection every time, mainly because you insisted, and we're still here. How does that happen?"

She shrugs, "Condoms aren't always effective."

"Well, that's unfortunate." Clarke raises her eyebrows, and Bellamy backtracks, "I don't mean it like that…I'm not sure how I feel, yet. I know that you're having my kid and I want to be there for him and his mother, but other than that, I haven't fully processed it."

_Him? His?_

Clarke's eyes scan the other questions on the form while she tries to think of a good response. She bites the inside of her cheek, feeling the cut inside her mouth from repeated injury, "I don't know how to feel, either. You're not alone in that…but when I found out, I just knew that I didn't want to have an abortion so here we are."

Bellamy rubs a hand over his face and she can understand his stress. He sighs, "How pregnant do you think you are?"

The question makes her smile because it's so _typical _for a man. Clarke answers clinically, "Not five months—I know that for sure. I don't have regular periods, so I don't have the typical warning system most women have. I wouldn't have guessed pregnancy if it wasn't for Harper."

Clarke returns to the insurance question and quickly writes N/A in every box now that he's distracted. She holds the clipboard to her chest when she catches him looking at it.

"You don't have insurance?" Bellamy doesn't sound pleased although she's willing to bet he doesn't have insurance, either.

Her eyes widen. Some operative she is...

"No, you've seen where I work. We barely have running water."

Bellamy straightens in his seat. He's not thrilled with the topic of their next conversation, and Clarke can't blame him. He says, "We need to talk about finances, then."

Clarke shakes her head adamantly, "I'm going to pay."

Her time as a Phoenix operative left her with a small fortune. Clarke knows that Skaikru isn't rolling in money. Their paydays are few and far between. Most days, they're just trying to survive.

"You work at a diner." Bellamy replies exasperatedly, "And Wick is a cheapskate."

Her tone is unusually firm, "Bellamy, I've got this handled."

Bellamy's frustrated and Clarke knows that she's struck a sensitive nerve. Her jaw clenches; she's not willing to back down. There's no reason that he should be draining his strained bank account on things that she can easily cover. Her confession is quiet, "I have a trust fund, Bellamy."

Clarke signs her name at the bottom of the medical paperwork but doesn't stand up.

She suddenly feels sick.

Bellamy looks at her in a whole new light, "You have _what_?"

Clarke taps the Bill's Grocer's pen against the clipboard, "My parents are well-off, okay?"

Blood rushes in her ears as dread fills her. Bellamy's clearly pissed off.

Clarke stands up, walking back to reception. Zoe accepts the documents, barely looking them over, and dismisses Clarke with a dull nod. Honestly, Clarke was hoping that Zoe would ask her more questions. She really doesn't want to be around Bellamy as he tries to piece together the limited information he knows about her.

He's glaring at her when she turns around. Bellamy doesn't say anything when she sits one seat away from him. She doesn't want to deal with his negative energy before she sees the doctor. 

Clarke pulls out her phone and texts Harper that she's at the doctor and replies to Wells about going to lunch. Naturally, she says no and that she's at the doctor for a check-up.

She considers telling Bellamy the truth. He might be more accepting if he knew that it was blood money.

_Yeah, right._

The waiting room is ice cold by the time a relatively young man steps out wearing a white coat. Clarke assumes it's Dr. Jackson. For what it's worth, the good doctor tries to conceal his shock fairly well. His eyes only widen slightly when he takes in the scene in front of him—a mildly pissed of Bellamy and a falsely cool and collected Clarke. She stands up to greet him.

Dr. Jackson maintains his composure, "Clarke, right? I can see you now."

Bellamy rises to join her.

"Do you want him to come?" Dr. Jackson eyes Bellamy uneasily. Clarke knows it is probably awkward considering Jackson's relationship with Nathan. Bellamy and Nathan are best friends. At least she knows that Dr. Jackson is capable of professionalism.

Clarke doesn't even look at Bellamy when she agrees.

No matter where they stand personally, Clarke's not going to deny Bellamy this moment. She can accept that he's shocked about her background because the details don't fit with the picture he created in his head. But, if she's being honest, this is the least surprising bomb that she's dropped on him this week. 

Clarke owns a house and drives a new car. Where did he think the money came from?

Dr. Jackson checks Clarke's weight and blood pressure, then asks her to take a blood test just to confirm that she is pregnant. Ironically, she thinks it would be hilarious if it turned out to be negative. What would she even do? 

_Go home against orders. Find out what the fuck Cage is doing. Be with my family._

"You're tough," Jackson mutters when he sticks the needle in her arm and she doesn't flinch. Her brain rambles off some bullshit her father used to say. _Pain is a dream._

Clarke lies, "I have tattoos. Needles don't bother me."

When he's finished drawing her blood, Dr. Jackson leads them to an examination room.

She hesitates before she walks in but she's not sure why. The ultrasound cart sits by the examination table. Clarke's anxious but is well-versed in what follows next. Bellamy takes a seat in a chair that's too small for him while Clarke gets on the table. Her posture is incredibly rigid as Jackson sits comfortably on a rolling stool. He starts by saying, "Let's talk about your periods."

Clarke replies are immensely technical until Jackson asks her about her family history.

"Tell me about your family."

Bellamy, who has been listening intently the entire time, looks positively interested now. He leans forward, ready to hear all the dirty details.

She looks down at her hands, "Uh, what would you like to know?"

"Any pre-existing conditions? Diabetes, kidney disease, psychiatric disorders?"

Clarke doesn't mean to appear so relieved, but she is, "Oh, no. Nothing."

Jackson moves on, "What about you Bellamy? Your family history is important as well."

Bellamy's disappointed with Clarke's brief answer. He answers confidently, "My mother has a heart condition, but it wasn't passed on to me or Octavia. No one has diabetes or a known kidney disease…as for psychiatric disorders, Octavia might be undiagnosed."

Jackson chuckles at Bellamy's evaluation and Clarke can't help but agree. Octavia Blake is a force to be reckoned with. Clarke doesn't know how she feels about Bellamy's health history. It scares her. 

What if her child is born with a heart condition? What if something happens? Jackson doesn't elaborate after they answer his questions, and Clarke's worried it's because he doesn't want to stress her out.

"Okay, I'm going to perform a transabdominal ultrasound. The goal is to make sure everything is developing how it is supposed to and to date your pregnancy." Clarke nods, slightly thankful that he hasn't opted for a transvaginal ultrasound, "Lean back, unbutton your pants and lift your shirt."

Clarke knows that Jackson is doing his job. Bellamy, on the other hand, seems provoked. He makes a growling sound in the back of his throat. Clarke shoots him a dirty look. He has no right.

"Like I'm going to get any pleasure from this," Jackson breaks his composure, "Bellamy, if you would like the best view _of the ultrasound_, come stand by Clarke."

Bellamy saunters over while Clarke rests against the crinkling tissue paper. He watches her while she unbuttons her jeans and rolls up her shirt. Her breath hitches and the corner of his mouth rises. Jackson watches them, shaking his head knowingly. Clarke turns away, looking at the screen instead.

Jackson shakes the ultrasound gel and then squirts it onto her stomach. Clarke hisses because it's fucking cold. Bellamy tenses, eyeing Jackson darkly.

"God, you could cut the tension in this room with a knife," Jackson mumbles and then defends himself, "It's a rite of passage."

"A little warning might be nice next time," Clarke says sternly.

Jackson grins as he flips on the ultrasound screen, grabbing the doppler, "You're going to feel a bit of pressure. Just relax." The noise of the machine fills the room as he moves the doppler around her abdomen. Bellamy leans closer to her, peering at the screen with squinted eyes. For someone only five years older than her, he sure is an old man sometimes. Her eyes trace the black and white picture, desperately trying to make sense of what's in front of her. "Ah, there we are."

A heartbeat fills the room and Clarke gasps, eyes widening in fascination. _A baby. _Jackson starts taking snapshots of the screen. Clarke watches with interest.

"I'm going to estimate your pregnancy at eleven weeks, possibly closer to twelve, but we'll continue to monitor your progress," Jackson says, giving Bellamy a proud, encouraging smile. He looks back at Clarke, "Everything looks great, Clarke. The heartbeat is strong. You can _relax._"

Clarke doesn't speak because she is terrified that it won't be in the right dialect. A weaker person would be a bundle of tears, but Clarke can hold the offending drops back. That doesn't mean that it isn't immensely difficult. She's not even sure how this is her life right now. She made _that._

Bellamy's voice is raspy when he finally speaks, "That's…"

"Do you want copies?"

"Two," Clarke manages, grateful that her accent doesn't slip. Her eyes don't stray from the screen, not even when Jackson lifts the doppler and shuts down the system. A professional would say she's in shock.

Her lifestyle isn't compatible with this type of purity. Her throat begins to close with one single thought:

_How many mothers have felt like I do right now, and how many of their children have I slaughtered?_

Jackson misconstrues her guilty expression, "Don't worry. On average, most women find out they're pregnant during weeks four through seven. Those that find out sooner usually have regular periods. If not, pregnancy symptoms can be mistaken for stress, the flu…anything. You have plenty of time to prepare."

He hands her a rag so she can wipe the gel from her abdomen.

Bellamy does the math quickly, "June for delivery?"

"Let's say June 21st as a tentative due date, but it may change," Jackson's oddly chipper about the whole thing. She definitely expected him to be grim, especially since he's a Skaikru significant other like Echo. "I am going to get your ultrasound prints."

Dr. Jackson exits the examination room and Clarke rebuttons her pants, lowering her shirt. Her eyebrows furrow as she tries to compartmentalize her past and her reality.

"What are you thinking about?" Bellamy walks away from the examination table and starts messing with a display of the uterus.

Clarke bites her lip, "Nothing."

"Bullshit."

He snags a brochure from a bulletin board about the benefits of breastfeeding. Clarke rolls her eyes and focuses on the door.

Jackson returns and hands them two rolls of ultrasound pictures, "Alright, here we go."

Clarke's fingers carefully examine the paper, brushing across her false name.

"You guys are free to leave after Clarke schedules another appointment with Monroe." Distantly, she works out that Zoe is Monore. The name fits her better. Jackson gives Bellamy an odd look as he watches his friend search through the other brochures. He continues, "You have a doctor's appointment every month until you reach the 28-week mark. You'll also want to start using prenatal vitamins"

Clarke nods, carefully sliding off the examination table because of the butterfly knives in her boots.

"No problem," Jackson says with a grin, then calls, "Bellamy, a minute."

Clarke leaves the room after gathering her purse and walks to the receptionist's counter. Monroe talks her through setting up an appointment in December, and Clarke sets up her payment options without Bellamy being present. Her appointment is $250 just for today. Clarke pulls cash from her wallet and hands it over.

"Thanks." Monroe raises her eyebrows, "See you next month."

Clarke hums in response, returning her wallet to her purse. Bellamy walks out of the examination room with Jackson on his heels. Clarke tucks her hair behind her ear, eavesdropping, "We'll talk later Jackson. Come by the shop around closing."

"Alright."

Clarke decides she doesn't want to know.

The car ride is quiet. She can't get a proper hold on her thoughts to engage in civil conversation. Clarke's unsure if he's thinking about the baby, or whatever Jackson pulled him aside for. She watches as they drive through town, but then he makes an unexpected turn.

"Where are we going?" She asks, a little more aggravation in her tone than she intended.

Bellamy's voice is hard, "We're grabbing lunch."

The only thing she wants to do is strip down her weapons, make some tea, and take a hot bath. She needs to think about her next steps.

Clarke comes up with a weak excuse, "I don't think we should be seen together."

"Clarke, you're pregnant with my kid. Fuck everyone else."

She purses her lips, crossing her arms defiantly, "Fine."

"Are you regretting your decision to keep the baby?"

Clarke starts fiddling with her locket again, "No. I just need a minute to process everything, okay? Fuck."

"You don't get to shut me out. I'm sorry I reacted the way I did about the trust fund."

She doesn't know what to say in response. Bellamy's not the type of person that apologizes often. Clarke knows she owes him some type of response. She bends the truth, "Bellamy, my family is complicated. I don't like talking about it. We're…estranged."

Bellamy parks her car in front of the diner, but he doesn't turn it off. He whispers, "I need to know that you're not going to run back to wherever you came from and take our child with you."

"I wouldn't without extreme cause," Clarke answers honestly because there are reasons why she would run. Very real reasons. "I think our best option is a custody agreement. I'm willing to adhere to split custody. No child support. Equal visitation, equal time after the baby is six months old. Before then, we can work something else out. That's what you're worried about, right?"

He doesn't say anything.

Clarke grabs his hand, mimicking the comforting gesture he used on her before, "Co-parenting isn't going to be easy, but I will always try to be fair and equal. If I'm not, then we talk about it."

"Okay, and what about us?"

Her heart skips a beat, "Us? I've told you-"

"Things are different now."

Clarke shakes her head, not believing what she's hearing, "You made your choice. A baby doesn't change that and if it does, you're delusional."

"I didn't decide to get back with Echo because I didn't want to be with you. It's more complicated than that…but now…_things are different._" Bellamy unbuckles his seatbelt and moves closer to her. Her first reaction is to put some space between them, but then he places his hand against her cheek. Clarke pushes her face against his palm, loving the warmth. His thumb strokes just beneath her eye, prompting her to close them. He pleads, "I want to be with you. Let me in. Let me be with you."

Bellamy lightly kisses her lips, then does it again. He says, "Let me in."

He tangles his hand in her hair, pulling until she moans and opens her mouth to him. Clarke delights in the taste of him and the way his tongue moves against hers. She allows herself to forget all of her grievances for a second. Just a minute. She needs this. Bellamy breaks this kiss so he reposition himself, then starts kissing her neck. His hand slips under her blouse, lingering on her stomach before he eases up to her chest.

Clarke pulls at the hem of his thermal, "Bellamy, please."

He nips at the skin of her neck, fingers toying with the cotton fabric of her bra, "Here?"

"Yeah," She corrects herself with a smirk, "Yes, sir."

Bellamy groans into her neck, "Backseat. Now."

She laughs as Bellamy scrambles off her so she can crawl into the backseat, "How uncool is the Prius now?"

He leans back and starts to take off his thermal when a loud knock on the window shatters everything. Clarke sucks in a deep breath as Bellamy looks down at her. He knows that whatever just passed between them is over. He nods, an emotion she doesn't recognize crossing his features. Wick is standing outside the car, pretending he didn't see anything.

Bellamy gets back in his seat and rolls down the window, "What, Wick?"

"Kane's looking for you, brother," Wick says, thoroughly amused, "Hey, Clarke...see you're enjoying your day off."

"I was until you showed up." Clarke says breathlessly, and then addresses Bellamy, "You can take my car back to your house. I'm going for a walk. We can talk later."

Bellamy scowls, clearly not liking her plan.

Wick leans against her car, speaking lowly, "Hey, man, not trying to be a buzzkill or anything but this isn't a good look and if Kane or Aurora find out..."

"A minute?" Bellamy's voice is harsh.

"Oh, sure." Wick hums and then steps away and walks towards his bike.

Bellamy looks down at his hands, "I want to tell my mom and Kane about the baby. You know, Kane's the only father I've ever known."

"Yeah, yeah, of course," Clarke pulls down the mirror so she can fix her hair. That strange feeling that's been rising in her throat finally boils over, "I know that there's something between us and I'm no good at resisting you. I'm afraid I won't be able to hold out much longer. Please, don't make me be _that person. _I don't want to hurt anyone, even Echo."

He repeats his earlier sentiment, "Things are different now."

"Prove it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I hope everyone loves this long chapter. I've already started working on Chapter 5 (WHICH IS GOING TO BE HUGE!!!) 
> 
> Comment below with your predictions for the next chapter/the rest of the story, AND/OR your favorite moment so far? I love everyone's input and I am so grateful for the support that this story has gotten. Your comments bring me joy :)


	5. Chapter 5

Her house is quiet except for the sound of her fieldstripping a Beretta APX. It's an overall comfortable handgun but she wouldn't consider it her favorite. Clarke bites her cheek, trying not to think too hard about the past or why she's so goddamn tense tonight.

Clarke ended up going to the dance studio after she left Bellamy with his thoughts. She danced until her feet cramped and then walked home. Her new burner phone came in the mail. She activated it and then started cleaning her house to calm her mind.

Seeing the baby was a shock to her system. Clarke's clung to the past for so long she doesn't know how to navigate her future. Maybe it's time to say goodbye to Clarke Griffin once and for all. Isn't that what she's supposed to do now that she's a mother?

But she can remember every time one of her trainers managed to knock her on her ass; all the bloody lips, blackened eyes and carefully stitched wounds. For the greater good. All for the greater good for Phoenix. And oddly, despite the discontent and confusion brewing under the surface, Clarke also remembers the pride she felt as she transformed into a warrior. She can't kill that part of her.

Her mind drifts to her service weapon and the quote that her father had engraved on its plating.

**"Anger may in time change to gladness; vexation may be succeeded by content. But a kingdom that has once been destroyed can never come again into being; nor can the dead ever be brought back to life." – Sun Tzu.**

Her service weapon is a white gold pen-plated Glock 17 with an elaborated version of her family's Phoenix crest. It's beautiful when it shouldn't be. Often, the parallel between her and that gun fuels her self-depreciation. Jake Griffin took it back when he exiled her.

Clarke used to interpret the message as a call to action: she needed to protect her people and fight for their cause wholeheartedly to maintain their empire. Tonight, she thinks Sun Tzu's words relate to internal reflection and the woes of being a leader. Maybe even the guilt of being a killer with a cause. She's honored and loved Phoenix with everything she has because it's who she is under all the superficial bullshit. Or at least who she was before this afternoon.

The idea that her parents looked at her the way she looked at her child today makes her want to scream. Did they know that they would have to break her? Or had they, like her, hoped for a different world?

She just wants to talk to her brother. He's been here before and faced the same qualms. She just wants Ethan.

With a heavy sigh, she slowly reassembles the Beretta. The last thing she wants to think about is her brother and the life he should have had, and the one stolen from her because of his death—and how she shouldn't feel that way because killing people, torturing people, and being a mass murderer doesn't equal a fulfilling life.

Clarke's supposed to be excited about motherhood. For Heaven's sake, she heard her child's heartbeat today; she saw her baby for the first time. By society's standards, she should be on Pinterest right now but instead, she's sitting in her dim-lit dining room with a handgun and a copious amount of compunction.

At least she finally moved her small arsenal to the spare bedroom upstairs.

Clarke leans back in her chair and closes her eyes. It took longer to haul her petite armory than she's willing to admit. The backs of her legs still burn from overuse in conjunction with how often she's been dancing lately to remain sane.

She thinks about calling her parents and getting it over with. It's the fair thing to do if Bellamy's telling his parents.

Her mother was distraught when Ethan told the family that he was going to be a father. Age was a factor because he was only 17. Abigail forced her entire family to go to confession and repent. She doesn't remember her mother warming up to the idea until after Madi was born.

Clarke's not expecting numerous pats on the back, that's all. Her mother's not going to brag about how her daughter got pregnant by a red-blooded, loudmouth American man over afternoon tea. It would be the death of her societal reputation.

Her phone rings, pulling Clarke from her thoughts. She fishes it from the mesh pocket of her yoga pants. It's Bellamy. Clarke answers hesitantly, "Hey."

"Hey," Bellamy responds softly, adoringly. After a beat, he asks, "What's wrong?"

He doesn't know how he's already broken through her defenses. It's unnerving that he can read her silence.

"Nothing," Clarke aims for absolute composure and fails miserably. She pauses to come up with a better lie, eyes sweeping around her house for inspiration, "…uh, just finished moving some boxes upstairs."

Bellamy hums suggestively, "I could've done that for you."

"I'm not fragile. I managed," Clarke mumbles distractedly, searching for something in the emptiness of her home. Possibly a reason why she's doing this to herself. It's like she's incapable of protecting her reputation around him.

He tempts, "You're home?"

"Yeah," Clarke breathes, then corrects herself with a grin, "Yes."

He practically purrs with approval, "That's better, baby. I'm coming over."

"Bellamy, I—" Clarke tries to protest because she's feeling weak after the events of this afternoon. Her morals have always been questionable but at least she had a cause. She's never been this selfish before in her life. She knows that she shouldn't be asking Bellamy to leave his girlfriend for her but Jesus Christ, what else is she supposed to do? The second they're alone she gets sucked back in.

"I ended things with Echo."

Guilt blossoms in her chest. It's not right.

"Oh."

_Really intelligent Clarke. You speak six languages, and that's all you can come up with?_

"I also told my family you're pregnant," Bellamy adds with false nonchalance. Clarke can hear the stress in his voice, but she is not sure if it is from dealing with his family, Echo, or a situation within Skaikru. More than anything, she wants to offer support, but she is not good at reassuring others. Comfort, compassion, and kindness weren't exactly listed in the Phoenix training manual. Their silence stretches for an uncomfortable amount of time until Bellamy hoarsely confesses, "I need you."

Clarke sends a silent prayer upstairs for forgiveness, "I'm here."

Father McKenna is going to be so disappointed with her when he finds out.

"Ironically, so am I."

There's a knock on her door, and she can't help but roll her eyes.

Clarke bolts from her chair and tosses the Beretta in the bottom drawer by the stove. As she walks to the front door, she questions her appearance. Sweat has loosely curled her hair, and her cheeks are flushed with a mixture of adrenaline and want. She's wearing a pair of old yoga pants and a sports bra that's a little too tight. _I need a shower,_ she thinks disappointedly.

He's standing patiently on her front porch, still dressed in the outfit he was wearing earlier. This time he's wearing his kutte. Clarke's not sure how to read his face. He's trouble by something but she knows better than to ask. She wonders if he felt forced to end things with Echo because of their child. Then again, Bellamy doesn't often do things he doesn't want to do barring orders from his president.

She flattens herself against the door, silently telling him to come in. He presses his body against hers despite the acceptable amount of space between them. Bellamy Blake's certainly a tease if she's ever met one.

Clarke does a mental inventory of everything she's supposed to be hiding: identity, guns, non-kitchen knives, her new burner phone, etc. If she keeps him confined to her living room, or perhaps her bedroom, everything should go smoothly.

Attempting to be blasé, she asks, "No bike?"

Bellamy surveys her sparse belongings and shrugs, "Walked. Needed to think after dealing with my mother."

Clarke traces the Skaikru symbol on his kutte. She likes to imagine that the artist really sucked, and everyone just went with it because it was funny. After a couple of generations, it became tradition and now everyone's too afraid to mention how ugly it happens to be.

"That bad?" Clarke worries her lip, mind spinning.

Bellamy and his mother have a complicated relationship from what she's gathered. While he loves her, the two often argue about his life choices. Aurora is the Skaikru Queen and she wouldn't be doing her job if she didn't insist on raising Bellamy to be the next king. Aurora made it clear early on that Clarke didn't fit into her plans for Bellamy with a series of verbal undercuts and glares. Bellamy getting Clarke pregnant is probably Aurora's version of hell.

"At first... then Kane stepped in and you know what? It doesn't matter," Bellamy peels off his kutte and tosses it on her coffee table before sitting on the couch. He throws a boot-clad foot on her coffee table with a clunk, "Come here."

Clarke thinks about her options and then does as she's told. She pushes his foot off the table as she moves to sit next to him. She curls into his side as he focuses on the positive parts of the evening, "Octavia's excited to be an aunt. Jackson was relieved dinner ended so quickly."

Bellamy wraps an arm around her shoulders, encouraging Clarke to sink into his skin. She's surprised by the amount of peace it brings her. Clarke buries her nose in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent. She presses her lips against his pulse point.

He groans approvingly, "I love where your mind’s at but we need to talk."

Clarke doesn't want to talk about Echo. She'll feel too guilty about what she’s done if they do. 

All this because she suddenly can't control her impulses.

His fingers stroke her cheek and Clarke makes a move to playfully bite his fingers without much forethought, "I promise I will take you to bed once we're finished."

She pouts, "Let's get it over with, then."

"I ended things with you because I didn't want you to get hurt," Bellamy doesn't hold back, immediately addressing the elephant in the room. Her heart practically leaps out of her chest. "My parents don't think you can handle our life, and I'm inclined to agree. It's not easy. But I'm not good at resisting you, either."

She hides her face in his neck, mumbling, "And Echo?"

"Fits into my world."

Clarke bites her lip, "Does she love you?"

He's silent for a moment.

"Echo and I got together because we shared certain taste," Bellamy says, obviously hating the direction conversations going, "We were young. I'm always going to care about her, but we're not in love with each other."

Clarke frowns as she remembers weeks of dirty looks and namecalling, "She acts like she's in love with you."

"She just didn't want me to get in trouble with you."

Clarke thinks Bellamy's delusional. He can't honestly believe that Echo doesn't love him. He's _Bellamy._ Everyone loves him. His brothers practically worship the ground that he walks on and there are plenty of other lovely women that like him.

She places a nervous kiss against his throat, chasing thoughts of other women away. Clarke needs him to show her how he feels. She breathes, "Is that all you wanted to talk about?"

"You're eager tonight," He strokes her hair and Clarke melts further into him. God, this is peace. He quietly says, "We need to talk about us."

Clarke shifts, placing one of her legs over his lap, "What about us?"

"We're having a baby," Bellamy tries to sound amused, but he just sounds turned on.

She smirks, "Yeah, I heard something about that."

"I want to be with you," Bellamy says directly and the smile falls from her face, "I can't predict the future, Clarke, but I don't plan on giving up easy. I don't want you to run anymore."

Clarke meets his eyes, questioning his sincerity. She doesn't find any sign that he's lying. It would be the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to her if it didn't terrify her so much.

_He only wants to be with you because he doesn't know who you are._

She disregards her self-doubt because he's waiting for her to say something. Clarke doesn't want to hurt him with the truth.

"I want to be with you, too." Bellamy looks relieved with her response. She smiles, happy that she's pleased him. Speaking of pleasing him, "Do you want me to sub for you?"

Clarke returns her mouth to his neck and he takes a strained breath, "Only if that's what you want to do. It's not something I _need._"

She pauses, pulls away again to really _look _at him. She can be honest about this, "I like it sometimes."

"I know and I love that you're willing to try," Bellamy says huskily, hand tracing her features, "Any more questions?"

Clarke shakes her head, "No."

His lips turn up, "No, what?"

"No, S-"

Bellamy crushes his lips against hers and she can't help but close her eyes. He tilts their bodies backward until she's flush against the couch. Her legs part for him, almost embarrassingly willing. She moans when he grabs her wrists and puts them above her head. Her impulses flare just as they did in her car earlier. _Right here, right now._

Far too soon, Bellamy breaks their kiss and leans his forehead against hers. Apprehensively, he asks, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Fuck you?"

"Language," Bellamy playfully chides, "I meant being together, pervert."

She pants out a laugh, "_Me_?"

"Answer the damn question."

Clarke places a hand on his cheek, "Yeah, I want to do this."

Bellamy relaxes, head sinking to her neck so he can plant kisses against her delicate skin. She wants to run her fingers through his hair, but she resists. Bellamy hasn't told her what to do, yet and she wants to play his game. Unfortunately, he's taking his sweet time and she's lost all her patience. A thought occurs to her and in a moment of bravery, she rasps, "Now take me to bed."

Bellamy pulls back with a dangerous grin, "That sounded like an order. I thought you were ready to behave."

The idea of Bellamy bending her over and spanking her until she can't sit properly compels her to say, "It was an order."

_We're definitely not making it to the bed...this time. _She can feel his erection pressing against the thin fabric of her pants, and as badly as she wants the friction, she doesn't dare to flex her hips.

"I hope you aren't counting on mercy just because it's been a while, baby," Bellamy coos, voice falsely sweet, "because I don't tolerate bad behavior."

Clarke wants him to kiss her, but he doesn't. She wants him to grind against her, but he doesn't. He just holds her down and traces her supple body with his hungry eyes. It's the best torture she's ever received. Unfortunately, the moment is interrupted by the sound of his cellphone ringing. He swears under his breath, retrieving his phone from his pocket. He checks the caller ID and she whimpers frustratedly. Bellamy brushes a kiss against her lips before standing up, "I want you to go to your room and get undressed. Don't touch yourself, Clarke. I don't care how wound up you are. You're mine."

She quickly rises and practically runs upstairs, smiling when she hears Bellamy growl, "What the fuck do you want, Murphy?"

The first thing she does is tidy up her bedroom. Clarke takes the blades and her new burner phone from her bed and puts them into the top drawer of her dresser. She searches for other little tidbits of gear she's left around. _Fuck the gun under the pillow,_ she panics. The sound of the stairs creaking almost causes her to flatline. She quickly shoves the gun into her nightstand.

Without hesitation, she peels off her clothes and tosses them by the hamper. She lets down her hair, shaking it out with her fingers. Her heart is racing with anticipation and adrenaline.

Clarke stands perfectly still as he enters her bedroom. Bellamy hums at the sight of her, pleased, and Clarke feels the heat return to her skin. He doesn't move for some time, just observes her. She fights the urge to conceal her nakedness out of modesty, but she doesn't want to disappoint him.

If only he knew the full weight of having Clarke Griffin submit to him...

Bellamy's the only person that she would blindly accept an order from without argument and she doesn't want to unwrap the meaning of that yet.

He closes the distance between them with a few purposeful strides. Clarke likes the way his boots sound against her wooden floors. She's so caught up in the rush of his proximity that she's genuinely surprised when he lands a firm smack on her ass. She yelps in shock, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he circles her. The electricity in the air is driving her crazy and she longs for him to just take her. What happened to fast and dirty?

Clarke needs to see him, taste him. It's not fair that he's teasing her after so much time apart.

_But you earned this_, Clarke reminds herself.

She whines impatiently.

He raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. Bellamy stops when he's directly in front of her, looking absolutely pleased with himself, "Don't pout. You know what you did. I think you need to be reminded about the importance of patience, don't you?"

Clarke fights the urge to roll her eyes and _loses_.

"You just can't help yourself tonight," Bellamy laughs as he takes a step forward, effectively pressing his firm body against hers. He rests one hand on her hip while the other tangles in her hair. He uses his grip on her hair to tilt her neck so he can tease her sensitive skin, "Don't move, Clarke."

Bellamy nips her neck as he moves his hand from her hip to her wet folds, parting them with his expert fingers. It's enough to make her visibly tense. He bites her a little harder when he dips his fingers inside of her, gathering her arousal so he can mind-numbingly stimulate her clit. She even thinks she hears him cuss, but then again, it's hard to hear over the blood rush.

He knows her body, knows what she needs. Bellamy's fingernail lightly passes over her clit as he positions his fingers just the way she likes them. Her hips minutely jerk in pleasure and he pulls her hair. _Fucking asshole._ He traps her sensitive nub between his two fingers and uses tight circular motions to drive her insane. Clarke loudly moans because of the change in pace, but she doesn't move again.

It's so difficult.

Bellamy's hold on Clarke's hair is the only thing keeping her on her feet.

"Please," she begs as the need to come starts to run down her spine.

He moves his lips to the shell of her ear, "Don't come, Clarke. You don't deserve it."

Bellamy cruelly increases the rhythm of his fingers until her lewd sounds overtake the room. She's finding it harder not to grind down against his palm because she knows it'll send her over the edge. If she disobeys his direct order, he probably won't let her come for a whole week. _Tempting._

Clarke results to unabashed pleading, "Please, Bellamy, I-I'm going to come."

Sensing that she doesn't have much resistance left, Bellamy removes his fingers. _That's not what I meant. _Bellamy releases her hair, moving his hands to cup her face, "You did good," His lips barely touch hers, "Your impatience is contagious. Get on the bed. I'm going to fuck you now."

Clarke dignifiedly crawls onto her bed and leans against her pillows. She raises an eyebrow, ready for her strip show. He kicks off his boots slowly, watching her reactions. He cheekily says, "Almost forgot how much you like to watch."

Bellamy's baiting her.

She only smiles.

Clarke catalogs his scars with heated, heavy eyes as he takes off his shirt. She looks expectantly at his face as he throws his shirt on the ground. She wants to know every story behind the marks on his skin—and if the people that gave them to him happen to still be breathing, she wants to solve that problem. Clarke swallows thickly. Bellamy maintains eye contact as he unbuttons his pants, almost as a dare and she rises to the challenge.

He knows that he's got a big dick—at least above average. Clarke was genuinely shocked by the girth the first time they slept together and she's yet to recover. Before Bellamy, she could have believed in the whole "size doesn't matter" bullshit but that ship has since sailed. An unladylike smile graces her face as he takes off his jeans and boxers. Bellamy's knees press into the mattress as he comes to her. He trails kisses from her ankles to her inner thighs.

Clarke sighs, falling into absolute bliss. He continues up her body, stopping to place endearing kisses on her abdomen. Their baby. Bellamy meets her eyes before kissing her stomach one last time. He proceeds to tease her skin, sucking the spot just above her breast with care. Clarke's grateful for his compassion because they're starting to feel quite tender with time.

His hand flies out towards the nightstand for a condom and she almost squeaks in fear, "No! I mean, well, I'm pregnant. Kinda defeats the purpose."

"Are you sure?"

"Did you use protection with Echo?"

God, this is a mood killer...but so is a gun.

He nods, "Yes."

"Then, yeah, I'm sure."

Bellamy brushes their lips together and she sighs again, but more out of relief. He traces the seam of her lips with the tip of his tongue before she opens her mouth to him. Clarke's hands rise to his hair but he quickly removes them, tangling his fingers with hers and forcing her arms above her head. Bellamy's balancing himself on his elbows but it's a precarious position. He places a knee between her legs to spread them apart and Clarke whines when his coarse hair brushes against the soft skin of her thighs.

He rolls his tongue against hers and Clarke's hips stutter, "Bellamy, please."

Bellamy releases her hands and whispers against her lips, "Let me know if I'm hurting you."

He removes his knee, and she immediately misses the friction. He grabs her calf and brings her leg around his hip as he sinks into her with a groan. At first, she resists him. It takes several slow, patient thrusts before he's fully seated inside of her. Bellamy pushes a strand of hair from her face, panting, "Good?"

She nods, words failing her.

Bellamy's careful with her in a way that he's never been before. It's both earth-shattering and positively annoying. The slow, steady rolling of his hips is enough to get her maddeningly close, but not enough to make her climax. Clarke sinks into her pillows, closing her eyes and letting the pleasure pulse through her. She wonders if this is what making love feels like…

He grabs her other calf, effectively wrapping both of her legs around him. The change in position causes her to see stars. Clarke opens her eyes, staring up at him with wonder. He's a positively damning sight if she's ever seen one. Bellamy's starting to sweat with his resistance, and she whimpers a plea in recognition. _More_.

Bellamy meets her eyes, finding something in them that makes him want to claim her lips. The kiss is sloppy and at a horrible angle, but she throws herself into it. Clarke's arms wrap around his neck as she pulls him closer to her, unwilling to let go. He breaks the kiss, only to say, "Fuck, I missed this," before returning to her mouth.

He increases the pace as she meets his thrusts.

Everything is just falling.

"Bellamy, I'm going to—"

"You have my permission," He breathes heavily, just as close as her, "Jesus Christ, you have my permission."

Her entire world cuts to white noise as she tightens around him. Clarke barely hears Bellamy groan, "Fuck, Clarke," as he finds his release inside of her. She doesn't register how much time has passed, but far too soon, Bellamy is pulling out and rolling off her onto his side. When it's clear that Clarke has returned to the land of the living, he muses, "I think it's time to take a shower."

She giggles, "Oh, do you?"

-X-

Clarke wakes up from a dreamless sleep with a start. Her eyes open widely, and she lunges forward, hands searching for a weapon that she doesn't have. Bellamy's sleeping next to her, entirely unbothered by whatever triggered Clarke's instincts. She takes a deep breath, her hand flying to the locket around her neck. _It's nothing,_ she tells herself. Clarke starts to lay back down but then she hears buzzing coming from her dresser.

Her burner phone.

She slips out of bed.

_Something's wrong._

Clarke avoids all of the weak spots on her floor as she tip-toes over to her dresser. The drawer opens with a creak, but she quickly grabs the phone and shuts the drawer so Bellamy doesn't find her stash by pure dumb luck. She glances over her shoulder when she hears the mattress sigh. Bellamy simply rolled over but he's asleep.

She rushes out of her bedroom, trying desperately to get out of earshot before she answers the call. The Caller ID reads _HOME. _Her parents would never call her at this hour unless it was important. Clarke's halfway down the stairs when she answers, careful to maintain her American accent just in case, "Hello?"

"Clarke," Jake Griffin breathes and she can hear the utter relief in his voice. Her stomach drops. Something's happened. He practically whispers, "Thank God you're okay."

He sounds terrified.

Clarke tries to remain calm but there are too many emotions coursing through her right now.

_Please, let everyone be okay._

Clarke's voice isn't steady at all when she asks, "What's wrong? What happened?"

"The Mountain Men made their move," Her father says and she can hear the anger and fear in his voice. Her first thought is there's been another bombing. More people are dead. She's going to have to bury more people that she loves. He continues, "They took Madi. Clarke, you are not safe. I'm calling you home."

Madi.

Home?

_Bellamy._

Their baby.

The words almost get stuck in her throat, "I can't come home, dad."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! 
> 
> Firstly, sorry it's taken me so long to get this chapter up. I've been SO busy with the end of the semester that I haven't had much time to write. Hopefully, with winter break coming up, I'll have a lot more time on my hands. 
> 
> So, what did everyone think?? Also, anyone have any predictions for the future? I’ve dropped a lot of major hints for the upcoming chapters, as well as possible sequels to this fic. What have you picked up on?


	6. Chapter 6

"I can't come home, dad."

Clarke can't breathe correctly. Her throat feels tight and the room is starting to shift. Madi's gone. _ Madi's gone. _

The Mountain Men have Madi.

_ You can't fight this war. Think about your child. _

_ Think about Madi. _

Her father hisses, "Clarke, enough. I don't have time for your backtalk."

She tries not to raise her voice when she says, "I can't come home. Not now."

Jake Griffin roughly exhales, "Why?"

"Because I won't be safe. If our enemies are stealing _ children _from our own backyard, what's to stop them from getting to us?" Clarke doesn't feel guilty for pointing on Phoenix's obvious weakness. Madi should've been safe with her own family. How the fuck does something like this even happen? She bites her lip before she puts the final nail in the coffin, "And I'm not ready for a fight. I've been out of the field for nearly a year."

Her father sounds disappointed, "I expected better from you."

Clarke walks to her window and pulls back the curtain to check the streets. There aren't any new vehicles parked on the road, and she can't see any suspicious shapes in the distance. She grimly reminds herself that an absence of proof doesn't mean an absence of existence. Clarke knows that her moves are being tracked. She's not safe in California, especially not in her condition. Madi was supposed to be safe, though. Phoenix should have kept her safe.

The accusation is heavy in her words when she asks, "How did this even happen?"

"Madi snuck out of the townhouse to help a friend. Raven accessed her texts," Jake explains, his voice quieter than before. She wonders if he's alone or if he's in a council meeting with the other top tier members, "Your mother went to check on her and she was gone. By the time we accessed her information and tracked her phone, we were too late. The friend and her entire family were dead. This was a well-planned attack. He knew how to lure her."

Clarke's fingers find her locket, "Leads?"

"The Mountain Men left their calling sign. Raven's working with her NSIS contact-" Ireland's National Security Intelligence Section. Great, the _ actual _government is involved. "-and we're running facial recognition on known associates."

Her anger is evident, "So, nothing?"

"There's no reason for this to be happening_ . _Tensions have been rising since Dante's death but this is personal."

_ It's my fault. _

Clarke moves away from the window and runs her fingers through her hair. _ Fuck. _

"She's my weakness," Clarke knows that Cage is trying to hurt her. He's trying to push her back into the fold. He must have tracked her to Arkadia. He has to know about her life, "Cage wants me at his mercy."

"Clarke, that's highly unlikely. Chasing down one woman is irrational," Her father's lying. He's trying to soothe her mind. Jake adds, "But, if that's how you feel, then you can't afford to stay-"

The floor whines above her head.

She cuts off her father, "I’ll consider it. Call me with any updates."

Before he can scold her for being so direct, Clarke ends the call.

Bellamy sleepily walks down the stairs. She switches her burner to silent and walks into the kitchen. Clarke tosses it into a bowl in her cabinet then opens the fridge. _ Pregnant woman searching for snacks _ is a perfect cover. He smiles when he finds her sorting through her ballerina-approved options and it makes her chest hurt. Bellamy wouldn't look at her like that if he knew the truth.

"What are you doing out of bed?" Bellamy closes the distance between them, wrapping an arm around her waist. Clarke shuts the door to the refrigerator knowing that she's not hungry. He sweeps her hair away from the nape of her neck. Warm lips press against her skin. She leans into it, closing her eyes. He whispers, "I asked a question."

"I was hungry."

He pulls back, "I thought I heard you talking?"

"Only to myself. I don't have any junk food in the house," Clarke says cheekily as she turns in his arms. She hates how well she can fake it. Inside, she's falling apart but he can't see that in her dark kitchen. He only sees what she wants him to see. _ A lie. _

Bellamy leans down to kiss her and she tentatively accepts. But then he's grabbing the backs of her thighs and hoisting her up on the counter. Her fingernails dig into his shoulders and he groans against her mouth. She's torn between wanting to feel something, anything, good and feeling too much. _ This has to stop. _She can't fuck him with this nightmare hanging over her head.

She breaks their kiss and fakes a yawn.

Clarke hugs his shoulders and laughs, "I'm so tired."

Thank god he can't see the pain on her face. He pulls back and she imitates exhaustion. Bellamy smooths down her hair, "Let's get you back to bed, then."

And for the first time in months, she can admit that she truly hates what she is.

-x-

Clarke couldn't fall asleep, even when Bellamy rolled over and wrapped his arm around her waist.

Cage is probably laughing wherever he’s hiding out. Just waiting for her to play his game. He’s one fucked up bastard and he’s using _ the one person _she would risk everything for as a pawn. 

That’s why she can’t follow her father’s orders. At least, that’s what she tells herself to drown out the guilt. The truth is she’s terrified to lose her baby and what she has here. She’s stuck between a rock and a hard place and Madi’s paying for Clarke’s doubt. 

She could track Cage down to the ends of the Earth and make him pay. But rationally, if this is about hurting her, won’t they end up wherever she is anyway? 

Bellamy’s breath fans against her bare shoulder and she closes her eyes. She can’t fathom the dichotomy of her two lives. Clarke gasps when he playfully nips at her skin. 

His hand slides down her stomach sickeningly slow. Bellamy husks, “Good morning” before he cups his hand over her sex. 

She wants to fall into his advance but she’s filled with dread. Her instincts are telling her to shed her emotions; detach. Let it all go and focus on the mission. Don’t feel. If she flips that switch, she can be better. Stronger. She can be what Phoenix needs.

But if she detaches and reverts, then will she ever be able to come back? She can’t hit the pause button on her life in Arkadia with a child growing inside of her. Yet, how the fuck is she supposed to save Madi?

“What’s wrong?” Bellamy asks and she knows that she’s been caught staring into the distance. 

_ Would you wait for me? _ Clarke mentally asks but she knows the answer. He doesn’t have a reason to pause his life for her. Then she thinks, _ I can’t stay here. Can I? _

Clarke turns her face into the pillow and mumbles, “I‘m not a morning person.”

She’s lying and he knows it. 

He removes his hands from her body and moves back to his side of the bed. Clarke hears him unlock his phone. An unfamiliar stinging disturbs her eyes. She grinds her teeth together to stop the tears from forming. 

A few minutes later, her alarm goes off. Clarke smacks the alarm clock so hard that she’s surprised she doesn’t break it. Really, she wants to yank its cord out the wall and throw it out the window. 

Maybe shoot it. 

Clarke tosses the comforter back and slides out of bed. She’s got a couple of hours before she has to go to work. The sun isn’t even up yet. She’s supposed to work another twelve-hour shift per usual. 

The idea of busting her ass at the diner all day for shit pay and lousy tips hasn’t ever bothered her so much. What’s the point?

She goes into the bathroom and draws a bath. Her bathtub is small, not at all like the one at her house back home. She highly doubts that’s a silver lining worth noting though. 

The water is almost unbearably hot when she slides in. Her skin immediately starts to redden wherever the water touches. Clarke stares up at the ceiling, trying to make a final decision. 

_ Stay or go home? _

_ Stay. _

_ Go home. _

Bellamy walks into the bathroom and looks down at her. He’s searching her face for something but she’s not giving anything away. She can feel herself going numb. 

He says, “Lean forward.”

Clarke complies wordlessly. She wraps her arms around her knees as he eases in behind her. He hisses because of the heat. The tub’s too small and some of the water splashes on the floor. Clarke doesn’t even turn her head towards the noise. 

His hand slides down the curve of her spine until it disappears under the water. He calmly asks, “Do you want to lean back?”

She does, pressing her back against his chest. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Clarke’s teeth sink into her cheek and she tastes a little bit of blood. She sniffs indifferently as she looks up, “Family drama.”

“Your family?” He can’t hide the shock in his voice, “You don’t ever talk about them.”

Except yesterday when she told him about her “trust fund”. Yesterday seems like weeks ago. She was so elated and scared when she saw the ultrasound. Now, she’s contemplating something that might put her baby in danger. _ Her baby. _

She whispers, “It’s complicated.” 

That’s her favorite excuse. 

Bellamy doesn’t give up, “Did you tell them about the baby?”

“Not yet. I’m not sure if it’s the right time,” Clarke wants to laugh at her minimization of the situation. The last thing her parents need is news of an impending grandchild. She doesn’t want to continue the conversation, afraid of where it might lead. She sighs, “Can we talk about something else?”

_ I’m backsliding, here. _

Before he can disagree, she starts to roll over. She hears the water hit the floor but she doesn’t care. That’s a problem for later. After a minor struggle, one that makes Bellamy grin, she’s straddling him. 

Their eyes meet and she wonders if he can tell something’s deeply wrong. Clarke’s scared of the numbness, worried what it might bring. She needs to feel something. 

She needs to feel him. 

Clarke kisses him roughly. She rises on her knees, holding down his shoulders as she begs his mouth to open for her. Bellamy’s not having it. He places a warning hand on her throat and Clarke purrs. 

He breaks away, humming appreciatively, “You’re trying to goad me.”

She rudely mutters, “Perceptive.”

Clarke delivers a bruising kiss. Bellamy grabs her hair, pulling her back so she has to look at him. His other hand squeezes her throat but she’s not afraid. Clarke seductively groans, a dangerous fire brewing in her eyes. A want. _ Yes, this is what I want _. 

Bellamy darkly scolds her, “You know better.” 

Clarke can feel his erection pressing between her thighs. He wants this just as much as she does. 

She begs for both of their sakes, “Please.”

Bellamy’s voice is coyly sweet, “You want it rough, baby?”

Clarke nods her head, loving the way her scalp tingles from the strain, “Yes.”

He narrows his eyes at her mistake and tightens his grip on her throat.

She bites out a breathy, “Yes, sir.”

Bellamy’s grip slackens. He looks at the bathtub and the puddle of water already on the floor. He frowns, “It’s not going to be very good here.”

Clarke whines, “I don’t care. Please, fuck me.”

“Mm, only because you’ve asked so nicely,” Bellamy says, releasing her. She takes a deep breath as he fists the base of his cock, “You know what to do.”

She ignores the sloshing of water as she slides down on him. Clarke pushes herself to accept his girth, a beautiful whimper breaking through her lips as she goes too far, too fast. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Bellamy pants, placing one hand on her hip. He experimentally rolls his hips and she gasps his name. He repeats the motion, earning similar praise. 

Bellamy snakes his arm around her waist for a better hold and then starts to mercilessly thrust. She moans, throwing her head back as her hips move instinctively with his.

His other hand sweeps her hair over her shoulders, then slides down her breast. He cups her tit, his thumb toying with her hard nipple. _ Yes. _

But she wants more. 

“Bellamy,” Clarke pathetically pleads, “I want to come.”

His hand trails down to where their bodies meet. Bellamy’s skilled fingers trap her clit easily but he doesn’t move them. She makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat, “Please.”

Bellamy applies pressure but doesn’t give her what she needs, “I love to hear you beg. Do it again.”

She cries out, “Please!”

Her plea doesn’t sound American at all but he doesn’t seem to notice.

Bellamy groans, “Please, what? Use your words.”

_ Are you serious? _

Her cheeks heat up. She embarrassingly begs, “Please, rub my clit, sir.”

“Very good, Clarke.” Her eyes roll back as he ruthlessly massages her. Clarke’s body tries to curl in on itself, seeking out _ more. _“Mmm, baby, you’re so close.”

She stutters, “Oh, _ pleasepleaseplease _.”

Her insides are quivering but he hasn’t given her permission to come. She tries to lock her hips to prevent herself from coming. He chides, “No. Feel it.”

Clarke chokes, “I’m trying to be good.” 

Bellamy shows mercy, astonishment in his voice, “You can come.”

Her orgasm splinters down her spine like numerous electric shocks. Clarke falls forward against his chest as he finds his release, murmuring her name repeatedly. 

She feels alive.

Here. With him.

“Clarke, kiss me.” 

She does. It’s sweeter than before. Lazy, even. Clarke doesn’t want to give him up. She breaks their embrace, “I’ve got to get ready for work.”

Bellamy languidly supplies, “Fuck Wick.”

Clarke shrugs and stands, exiting the tub and stepping into a large puddle. She looks over her shoulder at him, “Never considered it.”

He grimaces.

She reaches for a stack of towels under the sink and throws three on the ground. Clarke wraps a lavender one around her lithe form and then holds the other out to Bellamy as he stands. Clarke looks in the mirror, pleased to feel human again if only for the moment. 

She’s scared that she’ll fall back into the same mindset if she’s alone. Casually, she asks, “Do you want to come over after I get off work?”

“Uh, about that,” Bellamy says guiltily and her heart drops. A million fears run through her mind. Is he already done with her? Clarke’s reflection looks pale, “My mom wants you to come to dinner tonight.”

She’s surprised.

Clarke simply says, “Oh.”

He stands behind her, watching her in the mirror, “You can say no.”

She frowns, “I don’t think that’s how that works.”

Clarke walks out of the bathroom and discards her towel on the floor. She doesn’t want to sit down with Bellamy’s parents. Aurora and Kane don’t like her. That’s an irrefutable fact. 

The timing sucks, though. Unfortunately, she can’t deny his mother’s request without looking like a coward or a bitch. She’ll have to suck it up. On the bright side, she has a reason to stay at least one more day.

Maybe that’s how she’ll decide. Day by day. 

Bellamy joins her, picking up his clothing from the floor. She turns away as he dresses and walks to her closet. She looks at her naked body in the full length mirror, turning to her side. No bump, yet. She shifts, looking at herself from another angle. The gryphon on her ribs stares at her.

_You’re failing._

“What are you thinking about?” Bellamy asks as he sits down on the edge of her bed to put his boots on. 

“Trying to determine if I’m fattening up or not.” Clarke stops staring at herself and picks out her outfit for the day. She chooses a pair of dark washed jeans and a forest green t-shirt. She looks over her shoulder at Bellamy, who is watching her intently. 

He looks amused.

“Could you give me a minute to dress?”

Bellamy nods, “Yeah, I’ll be on the porch.”

Clarke walks to her dresser and pulls out some black lacy underwear and her butterfly blades—the perfect accessories. She dresses quickly enough and then tries to tame her sex hair. It’s a nearly impossible task. She opts for a half-up, half-down look that she used to wear all the time. 

She tucks the knives in her boots before she walks downstairs. The first thing she does is retrieve her burner phone. There aren’t any missed calls. Clarke worries her lip. They should know something by now. 

She doesn’t grab her duffel on the way out because she doubts she’ll have time to dance tonight. She collects her purse, keys, apron then walks outside.

Bellamy’s smoking on her steps, typing out a message of sorts. She doesn’t want to pry. 

Clarke announces her presence by asking, “What time is dinner?” 

He glances over his shoulder, appraising her casual outfit, “Eight.”

“Okay.”

Bellamy sighs, seemingly annoyed with her blasé tone, “Clarke, if you don’t want to go—“

“I’m not excited about being judged but they’re your family. I’ll survive.” Clarke says, her voice downcast. Her shitty mood is starting to return. She doesn’t want him to leave her. Clarke lies, “I’m starving and there’s nothing to eat in the house. Do you want to come?”

He raises an eyebrow but takes her keys when she offers them, “Okay, let’s go.”

The drive is less than five minutes. Usually, she prefers to walk but she’s feeling a little sore from earlier exertions. She also didn’t want to make small talk on the way. She stares out the window, wondering if this will be her view tomorrow, or the next day. 

Would her father call her home again? Would she go?

Can Madi afford for her to play this game?

Bellamy parks behind the diner and Clarke’s grateful that Harper and Wick are already there. He won’t ask her what’s on her mind in front of other people. She’s temporarily safe. 

Harper beams when Clarke walks in, “How did things go yes—oh, hi, Bellamy.”

Clarke starts doing her side work immediately. Her surroundings don’t feel real. _ This _is what she’s doing while Madi’s going through hell. 

Harper’s making a bagel and brewing coffee while Clarke sorts through menus and makes sure the Tuesday night waitress actually washed them down so they’re not sticky and gross. Bellamy takes a moment to respond to something on his phone and then sits in front of Clarke. 

"I heard last night was explosive," Harper says as she slathers cream cheese on a blueberry bagel. It smells good but Clarke’s appetite is wavering. 

Clarke glances up at Bellamy and he’s regarding her closely, heat dancing in his eyes. _ Yes, last night was explosive. _

He smirks.

Harper pretends to gag, "At dinner, perverts."

Her look turns sharp. Clarke didn’t know it was that bad last night. Bellamy shrugs as if it's nothing, but she can tell he’s not pleased Harper blabbed, "It cooled off."

"Right," Clarke says and then turns her back to him, continuing to sort through the menus. She’s worried about tonight’s dinner. The last thing she needs is to feel cornered or trapped. Maybe she should say no. 

"Where is your big mouth cousin anyway?" Bellamy asks after the silence in the room becomes awkward. Clarke watches Harper out of the corner of her eye. She doesn’t like Bellamy’s tone. 

Harper points towards the office, "In there."

Clarke doesn’t meet his eyes when he walks towards the back of the diner. She knows she’s not meeting his expectations this morning. She’s hot and then she’s cold. 

But Madi's been taken. 

Clarke might be in danger. 

Cage Wallace is out to get her. 

Phoenix is in trouble. 

If she had followed her father’s order last night, she would almost be home now. Her hands pause as she fights the urge to walk out of the diner and go. 

“Clarke, are you okay?” Harper’s worried. 

She closes her eyes and thinks of a good excuse for her mood. Clarke settles on a half-truth, "I'm supposed to have dinner with Bellamy's family tonight."

Clarke’s so tired of half-truths and lies. 

"Oh shit," Harper unhelpfully offers, "That's tough."

"Yeah," Clarke agrees flatly.

"Don't stress out. You know Bellamy has your back." Harper says confidently. The problem is Clarke knows that’s not going to be the case once he finds out the truth. She’s already walking on a thin line. 

Clarke dismisses the sentiment, "There's a lot going on right now." 

Harper moves so she’s standing next to Clarke. She lowers her voice to a barely audible whisper, “I’m not supposed to say anything but Skaikru is under a lot of pressure with a new...client. Monty's irritable right now, too, and Bellamy's a lot more high strung."

She thinks it’s ironic that Harper automatically assumes Bellamy’s the problem. He doesn’t seem stressed at all. About anything. Maybe he’s better at hiding things than she thought. 

Clarke's eyebrows furrow, "What do you mean?"

"I don't know the details, but if you're going to be one of us, you need to know this is part of the job," Harper warns, “You’ve got to be patient with him.” 

“Bellamy’s not the problem,” Clarke corrects but before she can elaborate, the office door opens. Wick looks mildly miserable, mumbling something about coffee. 

Harper obliges, then asks, "Coffee, Bellamy?"

"Yeah, thanks.”

Her personal phone dings with an incoming text. Clarke pulls it from her back pocket and reads a familiar number. Lincoln. He knows better than to contact her through this number.

Clarke opens the message, reading: McKenna MIA. 

The room starts spinning.

McKenna.

“Fuck.”

Clarke rushes to the bathroom and locks the door. She doesn’t care that the floors are dirty as she sinks down against them. 

Not McKenna, too.

_ I can’t do this anymore. _

She puts her hand over her heart and feels it’s heavy beating. Fear. She’s terrified. _ War isn’t fair, _Clarke coldly reminds herself. 

Clarke weighs her options.

_ Go home. _

_ Stay. _

_ Go home. _

_ Stay. _

_ Who’s going to protect Bellamy if you go? _

There’s a knock on the door. Clarke takes a strained breath, coughing through it. _ Get off the floor. _She can’t move. She feels borderline catatonic. When did she become so afraid of her lifestyle?

Another knock. 

“Baby, open the door,” Bellamy’s voice is soft. He’s worried about her. _ Get off the floor. For him. _Clarke stands shakily, walking over to the sink. The water is cold against her hands. Her reflection is pale. Bellamy knocks a third time and wiggles the handle.

She opens the door, feigning composure, “What’s wrong?”

Bellamy’s surprised by her casual tone, “You ran off—are you okay?”

Clarke responds, “Morning sickness.”

“Oh. Can I get you anything?” Bellamy asks and she knows that he’s at a loss. He takes in her appearance. Clarke knows she doesn’t look too hot. He suggests, “Maybe you should go home.”

“No, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me,” Clarke says, placing a kiss on his cheek. She pulls back, but doesn’t meet his eyes, “Let’s get you some breakfast.”

-x-

Wick lets her leave around 6:30 PM. She suspects Bellamy had something to do with it. Clarke drives home, questioning if she should check in with her father. He hasn’t reached out and Lincoln never said anything more.

_ They’re busy. _

Clarke climbs the steps to her house in a haze. She doesn’t notice the ornate box at her feet until she goes to unlock her door. Her breath hitches.

It’s a jewelry box. _ It could be a bomb. _

She doesn’t see any visible wires. A bomb is a pathetic way to kill someone, anyway. Not Cage’s usual modus operandi. 

Clarke picks up the jewelry box and flips the lid. The haunting melody of “Katyusha”, a Soviet war song, slowly plays and a beautiful, decapitated ballerina keeps pace.

The only item in the box is a barbell silver rattle. 

“Oh my god,” Clarke gasps in horror. _ He knows. _How the fuck does he know?

She unlocks the front door and pulls out a blade. The lock didn’t appear to have been tampered with but she can’t be certain. _ He knows where I live. _

Clarke’s hyper-vigilant as she clears each room. 

He knows where she lives. He sent this to her. He’s close. He’s watching her. 

She fumbles for her burner phone and calls home. It rings three times before her mother answers, “Clarke, Jesus, it’s nearly 3 AM, my heart. Have you heard anything?”

“I need dad.”

Her accent is thick and wild. Desperate. 

“Clarke—“

She repeats, “I need dad.”

Her voice breaks. 

_ Cage is going to kill me. _

Abby tries to calm her down, “Okay, okay. Hold on.”

Distantly, she knows that her mother wasn’t sleeping. She probably won’t be able to until Madi is home. If Madi ever comes home. At least she hasn’t something to trade. Herself. 

Cage wants her. Not Madi. Not McKenna. Her. 

Jake’s voice sounds like gravel when he asks, “Clarke, what’s going on? You’ve worked your mother into a fit.”

"Cage is in California."

A pause.

“Are you sure?”

She ironically laughs because what else is she going to do? Clarke says, “Someone left a jewelry box on my doorstep. Hand delivered. Plays that Soviet folk song.”

Her father growls, "Fuck. You should’ve come home when I told you to, Clarke.”

"Wouldn’t have mattered. I told you what Cage wants.”

Jake exhales, “We don’t think that’s his motivation.”

_ You’re in denial. _

“You’re wrong,” Clarke says in a whisper. Her father’s emotions are getting in the way. Jake doesn’t know Cage the way Clarke does. He’s never been stabbed by one of his men. “I think he has Madi here. I need a team.”

Her father considers her proposal. 

“We don’t have any other leads,” Jake explains, “Let’s hope you’re right about this. I need you to prepare that club— Sky Crew, is it?—for our arrival. We’ll need bodies.”

Clarke nervously asks, “You want me to reveal myself?”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, I-I just don’t—“

Jake’s patience is slipping, “Prepare them. We’ll leave here in approximately two hours.”

“Okay.”

“Be safe, Clarke.”

Her father hangs up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited & Updated 4/2/2020. 
> 
> Hello, guys! I was rereading this fanfic and realized that I was spending too much time story-telling and not enough time talking about things that matter. I've been reinspired but I wanted to update and add some details that I think are important. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

Her reflection in the rearview mirror is frightening. 

Clarke’s pushing her Prius well beyond the speed limit on the highway leading to Aurora and Kane’s house. 

The only thing keeping her _ present _is knowing she’ll see Bellamy soon. If she can just get to him, she’ll be okay. She won’t drown. She won’t revert. 

Rationally, she knows it’s a waste of effort. In a couple of hours she’ll have to burn her identity and squash their relationship. He won’t forgive her. 

Clarke wills herself to think about something else, anything else. 

_Madi_. 

Yes, Madi needs her attention now. Poor Madi. Ethan’s Madi. 

She’s caught up in a battle that shouldn’t concern her. Madi should be writing about the ever-cross Sister Helen from school. Abduction shouldn’t be her reality. 

This is Clarke’s fight. Her unfinished business. Her fault. 

And somehow McKenna is wrapped up in it as well. 

Everything she touches goes to hell. She shouldn’t even go near Bellamy but she’s falling apart and she _ fucking needs him _for as long as she can have him. 

_ You’re mental, _she thinks when she catches her eyes in the mirror. They’re red from exhaustion. She looks like hell. 

_Please don’t do this, _the remnants of Clarke Chase beg. 

God, this night couldn’t be worse. 

Her GPS announces her arrival in a chipper tone, and she wants to punch it until the screen shatters. 

The thought sends a tingle down her spine. Pain, violence—she understands them better than the hurt in her heart and the lump in her throat at the idea of what she has to do next.

The Kane Residence is modern compared to its willowed neighbors. 

Apparently, it pays to be king. 

Clarke bites the inside of her cheek, relishing in what it gives her.

Bellamy's bike is parked on the side of the road. Clarke eases her car behind it with precision. She’s got a death grip on her steering wheel.

_ Calm down. Calm down. Calm down. _

Clarke verbally counts backward from ten to steady her breathing. The last thing she wants to do is eat but she told Bellamy that she would be here and that’s got to mean something, right? Maybe he’ll see how much she cares and— 

_ You’re being ridiculous. He’s going to leave you. _

Clarke sees Bellamy walk outside and light a cigarette. He looks stressed, or pissed off. 

She’s not sure how to read him from this distance. She takes a shaky breath and exits her car. 

Clarke changed into an emerald green shift dress and straightened her hair. She tried to look presentable. She tried to care. 

She walks up the recently pressure washed driveway on nervous legs. 

She’s not prepared for whatever Aurora’s planning to do. It’s obvious Bellamy’s mom has an ulterior motive. She didn’t wake up and decide Clarke was her new bestie. 

Bellamy greets her with a smile. He’s shaved and showered. As she gets closer, she can smell the alluring scent of his inexpensive cologne. 

His clothes are far more casual than hers but she doesn’t mind. Clarke lingers an appropriate distance away like she’s at a church lock-in and the nuns are threatening corporal punishment. 

“You look beautiful,” Bellamy murmurs as he takes a step in her direction, arms extended like he wants to bring her in. Clarke involuntarily tenses as a slew of emotion runs over her. His eyebrow twitches, “Everything okay?”

“I, uh,” Jesus, having a formal dinner with his parents shouldn’t feel like a priority, “Just nervous.”

“Hey, you’re going to be fine,” Bellamy brings a hand to her cheek, looking down at her with amusement, “I’ve never seen you like this before.”

“I’ve never done this before,” Clarke confesses and her anxiety starts to ease. 

She’s never had dinner with a significant other’s parents. She only had one pseudo-serious relationship with someone and that fizzled out before it could mean anything. Again, her fault. She wasn’t ready for anything real. 

His expression conveys genuine shock, “You’ve never met-the-parents? Isn’t that an essential part of prep school and mansions?”

Clarke rolls her eyes, “I didn’t go to prep school. I went to Catholic school and I dropped out before dating was a thing.”

Bellamy’s steps halt. She turns around with a raised eyebrow. Clarke doesn’t exactly fit the stereotypical definition of a drop out but it was either Phoenix or school. She chose Phoenix. 

Well, technically there wasn’t a choice at all. 

“I learn something new every day,” Bellamy teases before landing a firm slap on her ass. She squeaks as he pulls her tightly against his body,“You’ve got a nasty habit of rolling your eyes, you know that?”

Clarke pretends she’s unaware, but her voice comes out to breathy, “Do I?”

“Oh, yeah,” Bellamy mutters as he presses his lips against her shoulder, and then her exposed neck. Clarke closes her eyes, loving the sensation. Cherishing the moment. She’ll remember him like this. 

Perfect. And infatuated with her. 

Bellamy releases her only to twirl her around so he can taste her lips. 

The front door opens and Bellamy is embarrassingly slow to pull away. Marcus Kane stands in front of them with a frown, thoroughly unimpressed. He greets her coolly, "Welcome to our home, Clarke.”

She offers him a tight-lipped smile. Kane doesn’t like her, that’s clear. She’s not exactly his biggest fan, either. He looks at his stepson, disappointment in his eyes. _ Jesus Christ it was just a kiss. _

“Dinner’s almost ready. Come in.” 

Bellamy guides her inside with a warm hand on her lower back. The house smells like pumpkin spice and Clarke’s reminded that American’s celebrate Thanksgiving. Aurora never struck her as the homemaking type. 

Kane walks ahead of them, not bothering to hold conversation. Clarke’s grateful for his cold demeanor. The less he talks, the less she has to lie. 

Of course, she could just let the cat out of the bag over dinner, but that seems unfair. 

No, she’s going to tell Bellamy after dinner when they can talk alone. Clarke doesn’t know what she’s going to say yet but she’s not planning on holding back. He deserves the truth and her father needs Skaikru’s trust. 

She pauses in front of a door surrounded by an overabundant amount of pictures. Childhood snapshots, family vacations and mugshots liter the wall. Her eyes scan the timeline of Bellamy’s life, fascinated, landing on a mugshot taken when he was roughly eighteen if she’s reading the date correctly. 

"I got into a fight," Bellamy explains hurriedly, almost as if he’s ashamed of his past. Whatever he's done, she can match tenfold. 

Kane turns around to look at them with distaste. Clarke doesn’t blame him, really. She’s a threat to Bellamy’s lifestyle. 

It's bad enough that she’s a total outsider and being forced on them because of her condition. It’s even worse if Bellamy starts second-guessing his actions and becomes unreliable in his position because of her presumed soft nature.

Lucky for them, it won't get that far. 

In an attempt to ease the tension filling the small hallway, Clarke noticeably smirks at the picture, "You must have won."

Marcus raises an eyebrow questioningly, clearly not expecting her light and humorous tone. Bellamy appears relieved, "What makes you think that?"

She purposely rolls her eyes to get under his skin. If she didn't know for a fact that his mood would be completely unsalvageable after dinner, she would try to use this to her advantage.

A formal punishment would be the perfect stress release. God, she almost needs it.

Her index finger hovers over the cool glass of the frame until she presses it into the corner of his mouth, "You're smiling. Just a little."

Marcus snorts, "You were an intolerable smartass back then."

"Just back then?" Clarke mutters mainly to herself.

Marcus chuckles, and it seems that she’s broken the ice just a little bit. He continues walking to what she assumes is the kitchen. Clarke goes to follow but Bellamy stops her in her tracks, moving his hand to her hip._ Oh. _

His breath tickles the shell of her ear, "Keep it up and you'll get exactly what you want."

He releases her, only to grab her hand so he can lead her down the same path Marcus went.

She can smell whatever Bellamy's family is cooking and she's grateful that it doesn't make her want to hurl. If her overly concerned nose is correct, then they're making something Italian. 

At least, if all fails, she'll have a decent meal for the first time since her lunch with Father McKenna. 

McKenna.

_ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _

She can’t fall apart here. 

Her suspicions are confirmed when she steps into the kitchen’s dining room area and sees Aurora stirring some type of sauce while Octavia distractedly mixes a salad. 

Marcus is sitting at the head of a long farm-style table, typing on his phone. Aurora and Octavia, who were previously chattering in hushed tones, cease conversation and look at her.

Octavia doesn't seem too put off by her presence, just mildly unamused. She's wearing a black crop top and a pair of leather pants. Her ears are covered with small piercings and her hair is intricately braided. The girl would look intimidating if Clarke wasn’t everyone’s worst nightmare. 

Aurora is dressed similarly, but without all the piercings and the crop top.

Everyone just stares at each other in awkward silence. Aurora and Clarke lock eyes, but Clarke doesn’t back down. Truthfully, her mind isn’t there at the moment. It’s on her first confession with McKenna. 

She doesn't realize that she's subconsciously trying to establish dominance until Aurora looks away. The woman looks visibly irritated, biting out, "Glad you could join us."

Clarke nods in response to Aurora's false greeting, afraid that any verbal expression will be unkind or sound peculiar. _ Why the fuck am I even here? _

Octavia goes back to mixing the salad and Aurora turns her back on them. Clarke sighs, already over the charade. Bellamy holds her hand a little tighter. Her shoulders relax.

Marcus tries to navigate the tension in the room by saying, "Have a seat, Clarke."

Bellamy releases her hand, pulling out a chair for her. It's sweet, but she misses the comfort of his touch. Fortunately, he sits beside her. Clarke's eyes flicker between Bellamy and the kitchen. 

Aurora moves around the room comfortably, speaking to Octavia about frivolous things like a boy named Atom and Octavia's new job as a secretary for Skaikru’s main front.

Bellamy pulls out his phone and starts responding to messages. Clarke doesn’t read them. Marcus is also enthralled with his phone. She pulls her out just because she doesn’t want to look stupid. 

Another message from Lincoln. It reads: **OTW. NO WORD FROM MCKENNA. **

She wants to ask how long it’s been since they heard from him and if her father pulled him from the field when she suggested. Is McKenna hiding or is he dead? 

Clarke swipes out of it and then reads an unopened message from Wells: **Missed you tonight. Wyd this weekend?**

Her sigh is nearly inaudible but it gets Bellamy’s attention. He looks over at her phone and frowns. Clarke exits out of the messaging app and goes to Instagram. The first picture that pops up is of Monty and Jordan watching _ Monsters, Inc. _

Clarke double-taps. 

Bellamy returns his attention to his phone.

Another text comes through from an unsaved number. _ +353 1 555 0000: _ **ETA 7:12 AM PST. ARKADIA AIRFIELD. ALONE. **

_ Shit, this is happening. _

The women enter the dining room area with their side dishes and a pitcher of lemon infused water. Marcus and Bellamy immediately put down their phones, probably used to Aurora's quick scolding. Clarke does the same. 

Aurora takes the chair on the left of Kane, and Octavia takes the seat next to her mother directly in front of Clarke. 

"You're okay," Bellamy kisses her ear as everyone gets settled. He places an anchoring hand on her upper thigh, squeezing lightly. She appreciates the effort, recalling Harper's earlier sentiment about Bellamy having her back.

Aurora clears her throat, "Eat up."

Everyone at the table starts reaching for bowls and passing them around. Clarke takes a moment to pray. _ Please protect my family. Bless this meal, bless these people. Amen. _They’re staring at her when she opens her eyes. 

Bellamy coughs and then restarts the rotation. Aurora’s made chicken Alfredo. One of Clarke’s favorites. She’s not sure if she’s ever revealed that information, so she chalks it up to chance. 

Clarke notices after the fact that her plate contains the smallest portion size. It's mainly because she doesn't feel too good, and also, rich food hardly agrees with her these days. 

Aurora immediately takes offense, "Something wrong?"

Bellamy steps in before Clarke has a chance to open her mouth, "She's been feeling sick today, mom. Chill."

His mother looks taken aback by his tone but doesn’t continue the conversation. 

Aurora has two children. It’s quite possible that she understands morning sickness and its unfortunately inaccurate name far too well. 

Much to her disappointment, Aurora is an excellent cook. The food is phenomenal and highlights how shitty her diet’s been since she moved to California. She’s so caught up in the meal that she doesn’t realize that Aurora’s planning her attack. 

Clarke nearly chokes when Aurora asks, "Are you even sure you're having my son's child?"

It's an excellent power move and one Clarke should’ve anticipated.

Kane sighs, embarrassed, "Aurora."

Aurora narrows her eyes and moves on to her next invasive question, "How do your parents feel?"

_ Fuck me. _

"I haven't told them,” Clarke says calmly. _ You fucking bitch. _

"Why? Ashamed?" Aurora looks at Bellamy, trying to make a point. It's clear that the pair have discussed Clarke's background beforehand and how that relates to her pregnancy. 

Clarke tightly replies, "No, we just don’t speak much."

Her hand balls into a fist under the table. Aurora hums in response.

Bellamy reaches for her hand, easily disengaging her defenses. Clarke isn't worried about this moment and how it affects Bellamy's viewpoint of her. She's worried about after dinner and how his mother's words will replay in his head. Worst of all, Aurora just might be right about her. 

She suddenly doesn't feel like eating. 

Clarke wants to tell Aurora that she’s going to win. There’s no point in putting in all of this effort because she’s going to win. Bellamy’s never going to love her and they’re never going to become anything more. 

She swallows hard. 

Aurora focuses on her daughter for a moment, "Octavia, phone away."

Octavia exhales, "Just texting Atom back."

"He can wait."

The brunette slams her phone down on the table and takes a large sip of water before fixing her attention on Clarke, "So, do you want a girl or a boy? I want a niece."

"Uh…"

Bellamy rolls his eyes, an amused huff escaping his lips, "It's early, Octavia. I’ve already told you this."

Octavia dramatically rolls her eyes, "You want a boy. That's obvious."

Clarke’s suspected Bellamy's leanings ever since the doctor's appointment. Octavia’s reveal doesn’t come as a surprise. Clarke says, "I like the idea of having a daughter, but I'm content either way."

Octavia smirks, victorious, "I knew it."

Aurora surprisingly joins the conversation, "Girls are harder than boys, don't let anyone tell you differently. I'm lucky I had Bellamy first or I would’ve never wanted another child." 

Her tone is friendly—a deep contrast to her earlier aggression. It seems they have come to an agreement, although Clarke is still wary of the terms. 

Clarke is the enemy. Her baby isn’t. 

"Hey," Octavia calls out, offended.

Bellamy gives her a significant look, "You are hell, O."

The rest of dinner goes by in a civil blur. Aurora doesn't ask any more intensely horrifying questions and every time Bellamy senses her discomfort, he soothes her with his simple touches. 

Maybe this won’t totally suck. 

A knock on the door pulls Clarke from her momentarily peaceful thoughts. Despite rationality, she considers the worst possible situation as Kane stands and walks out of the room. 

She considers calling after him, telling him to be careful before he catches a bullet meant for her. Her warnings freeze in her throat. When Kane returns, Miller’s on his heels. 

Clarke relaxes. 

Aurora sighs, meeting her husband's eyes, "It's fine. Do what you have to do. We'll clean up and get ready for dessert."

Bellamy squeezes Clarke's thigh, "I'll only be a minute."

Clarke offers to help Aurora and Octavia clean up the kitchen because she doesn't have anything better to do. Of course, she considers jumping into her car and running away, but her father gave her a mission. She’s not allowed to leave her without telling Skaikru to prepare for their presence. 

She's given the task of rinsing dishes before they are put into the dishwasher. Octavia hands her plates after she scrapes the scarce leftovers into the trash bin. After the dishwasher is loaded, she helps Aurora pack away the remainder of the food into Tupperware dishes. All very domesticated. 

Aurora murmurs, "It's never as good reheated but Marcus doesn't complain. Do you cook?"

Clarke doesn't want to sound boastful, so she says, "A little bit. My mother taught me some traditional dishes, but it’s been awhile.”

Aurora's tone remains kind even as she picks apart Clarke's words for clues, "You're not close with your parents?"

Clarke snaps the lid shut on the salad container and tries to steady her voice, "I used to be."

_ Before I knew what my parents did. Before they trained me to do it, too. _

"My parents disowned me when I had Bellamy and it stung like hell. I was young and scared. I know what that does to a girl, Clarke," Aurora says softly, gaining Octavia's attention. Clarke focuses on the Tupperware dish in front of her rather than Bellamy's mom. "I need to know that you can handle this life, Clarke, and if I'm being honest, I don't think you have it in you."

Clarke turns her head to meet Aurora's eyes, "I'm stronger than you think."

Aurora nods but Clarke's sure that she remains unconvinced.

Time passes as the women move around the kitchen until it's in order. Aurora pulls a cheesecake from the fridge. Clarke thinks about what happens next. Her anxiety spikes. 

_ I can’t do this. _

She starts speaking before she can think it through, "It's getting late. I need to get home. Thank you for having me."

Clarke hastily walks out of the kitchen before Aurora can form a response. There will most likely be hell to pay later, but she doesn't care. Right now, she can hardly think straight. As she practically runs down the hallway, she catches Miller's low voice coming from the partially open door between the pictures.

"Jaha's demanding a boost in security for his next shipment but we don't have the men to spare now that we're working with these Russian bastards. We're in a bad place, boss."

Clarke pauses, eyebrows furrowing in confusion as she tries to process Miller's words. First off, Thelonious Jaha—Well's father—is working directly with Skaikru? She wonders if Wells is aware of his father's illegal dealings. 

She shoves the information down, focusing on the next bit of information. 

Skaikru is working with the Russians.

If she was stupid, she would allow herself to entertain the possibility that there are multiple Russian organizations at play here, but that's never been the reality she's subscribed to before. The mild panic she felt beforehand tightens around her throat like an aggressive fist. 

Kane responds after a moment of consideration, "Our priority has to be their shipments right now. Their money is good and quite frankly, we need it if we're going to survive. Jaha will live."

Bellamy seems displeased with Kane's ruling when he says, "Wells has been watching the lot."

"And whose fault is that?" Kane quickly retorts, "You screwed his girlfriend. It's your problem to handle, not the club's."

Bellamy growls, "You know _ that _didn’t happen."

Kane solemnly says, "Fix it or I will. We can't have him snooping around, Bellamy. Falsely motivated or not."

Clarke wills herself to walk out of the front door as she slowly connects the dots. Her parents and a bunch of highly trained warriors are on the way—mere hours from being stateside—and the father of her child and everyone he loves is working for the enemy.

The people that took Madi.

Her only comfort is that she has confirmation that they're close. 

_ Jake will kill them _ , Clarke realizes, _ he’ll kill them all. _

And a part of her, the part that swore an oath to protect Phoenix and all of its interests, thinks they might deserve it. How dare they betray her people for money?

Her steps are deliberate as she makes her way to her car. A series of solutions run through her head but none of them are viable options. Not even running away with Bellamy right now. Clarke knows the only way this works is if she puts her neck on the line. 

The hair on the back of her neck rises when she hears the front door open.

Bellamy catches up with her quickly, jogging to close the distance, "Hey, you're just leaving without saying goodbye?" 

He looks calm for someone that was just ordered to either threaten, assault or murder a police officer. Even calmer for someone that's actively betraying an ally because of _ greed_. 

He assesses her wild state, not used to seeing her so uncollected. Usually, she's better at holding herself together but right now she can't find it in her. The dam has broken. 

"What's wrong? Did my mom say something?"

Clarke meets his eyes in a rare moment of total transparency but she's not sure what he sees reflected. He’s an expert at reading her but he’s never been able to see the truth. 

She says, "I'm not who you think I am."

Everything inside tells her to shut the fuck up and go home. Get in the goddamn car and drive. Deal with this tomorrow. Let her father clean up her mess instead. 

Bellamy takes a step back and it's clear that he's misinterpreting her meaning by the look of hurt that flashes across his face, "I thought things were going fine. I thought you wanted to be together."

"They were. They are. Really," Clarke amends swiftly. He noticeably relaxes and she can tell that he's about to ask a follow-up question.

_ If you don’t tell him, he’s dead. _

Clarke clenches her jaw, a look of agony crossing her features, "I work for the IRA."

His face distorts, a visage of confusion and shock, "What?"

Bellamy struggles to process her confession. She can tell that he's torn between disbelief and total comprehension. There aren’t enough hours in the day for her to wait for him to unravel what she’s saying. Not now. Not with what's coming.

Clarke cups his face with her cold hands, a look of pure desperation in her eyes as she wills him to _ get it_. 

Bellamy scans her face, clearly hoping that she’ll laugh or say just kidding, but when she doesn't, she sees his features harden. 

His own mask. 

_ Please stay. Please don’t leave me. _

Clarke's words come out breathily like she’s going to cry, "You and I are real, okay? I would do anything, _ anything_, Bellamy, to go back. I never thought things would go this far. I'm supposed to be out. This isn't supposed to be my life anymore."

"This entire time you've been…" He jerks away from her, enraged. His face shows his disgust,"Who the fuck are you?”

She could offer more information or fill him in on her entire past, but she doesn't know if she can trust him anymore. Not with things that concern her family, her friends. Instead, she dryly sobs, "I’m still me.”

_ Liar. _

"You need to leave," Bellamy says in a rigid tone that he's never used with her before. He turns his back to her to walk away. 

“Bellamy, _please_—“

Bellamy turns on her quickly, looking positively dangerous. He hisses, “Get in your fucking car, and go. Now. Before I—”

Bellamy's eyes are full of hatred and misery. 

_ He hates me. _

A voice in her head says, _ he can hate you all he wants, as long as he’s alive. _

It’s enough to ground her. 

Her spine straightens, and her eyes focus, "My people are on their way to Arkadia right now. The Russians took something from us. If they find out you've been actively working for Cage Wallace, you’re as good as dead. This is serious, Bellamy."

He has no idea how much she's risking by warning him.

Bellamy snarls, "I can handle my own."

“You to be honest and cooperative,” Clarke flinches when he takes a step closer to her at her poor choice of words. She utters, “Please.”

But she doesn’t know if it’s for mercy or for the pain of what he’d be required to do to a traitor. 

Bellamy begs as if all the fight has been drained out of him at the sight of her fear, “Leave.”

He can’t seem to come to terms with his emotions and his loyalty. Clarke knows the feeling.   
  
Clarke doesn’t fully break in front of him. Her body moves on its own. She gets in her car, starts it and drives off as quickly as she came. She doesn’t even realize she’s been crying until her vision blurs.

She slams on brakes, throwing her car into park in the middle of the road. Her fists slam against the steering wheel repeatedly as her sobs overtake her, “No! No! No!”

Clarke screams for the first time in years, finally breaking down, “I can’t do this anymore! I can’t _ do this anymore, _God! I _am_ done!” 

_ Stop caring. Stop feeling. Pain is a dream. _

_ Stop crying. _

_You can do this on your own. You can go back home. You can be a single mom. You can do this.  
_

_He’s just a man. That’s it. Make him a memory. _

A louder sob tears through her. And another tearful scream. 

“I was almost happy!” Clarke screams to the universe, “Why do you take everything from me?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,
> 
> Sorry it took me so long to update. I was feeling a little uninspired because of life and needed to take a break. I won't promise fast updates but this is definitely not a story I've given up on yet and I hope you enjoyed this chapter (even though it is a little sad). 
> 
> Sound off below what you think!


	8. Chapter 8

The last time she was at Arkadia Airfield, she'd just lost everything. 

Her home, her friends, _ her name_.

Clarke can appreciate the irony of her unfortunate return. 

Bellamy told her to leave. It's over. She’s got to let it go. For Madi. For her family.

_You can do this alone. You can still be a good mom. _

Clarke’s worried that her father won’t forgive Skaikru’s misstep and she doesn’t know where she stands. Bellamy doesn’t deserve to die. None of them do, but Skaikru is supposed to be loyal to the IRA. That’s the basis of their agreement. The only way Skaikru makes it out of this unscathed is if she puts her reputation on the line. 

She wraps her arms around her figure, feeling smaller than ever. How did everything fall apart so quickly? 

Her eyes drift towards the sky as she hears the cargo plane in the distance. _ Fuck, here we go. _There’s a slight chill in the air that she didn’t dress for but she’s having a hard time caring. 

She refocuses.

The size of the plane tells her that her parents spent a small fortune on travel, not including the payoffs to government officials. They’ll have to re-up after they find Madi through a series of dangerous missions and trade deals. Will she be dragged home to complete them? 

She likes the idea.

The plane lands shakily.

_ Not the usual pilot, then. _

Clarke tries to remain impassive but fear is creeping down her throat. God, she feels like an imposter. In the past, she always felt like herself around her family—confident, smart, and steady. Now she feels like an outsider looking in. She’s a civilian.

Her impatience bubbles over as she waits for the hatch to open. _ What the fuck is taking so long? _ She clenches her jaw; an attempt to force composure. Clarke closes her eyes and counts backward from ten to find a semblance of serenity. 

The hatch slowly levels with the ground and she’s surprised by the surreal amount of dread that fills her. 

Her father is the first person she sees. Jake Griffin doesn’t look different to her, and she doesn’t know why that disappoints. Maybe she wanted him to age tremendously because of her absence. Maybe she wanted him to suffer, just a little bit, without her. But his hair is still longer than Phoenix’s council advises it to be. He’s still parting it boyishly so he appears youthful and approachable. Even from this distance, she knows that his eyes are impossibly kind for a man that deals with death and violence on a daily basis. 

She doesn’t know why it hurts.

She notices her mother next. Abigail Griffin doesn’t seem to be handling the stress of Madi’s kidnapping well and Clarke wonders if she shares her mother’s obvious tells. Can her parents see her confusion, her pain, her lack of confidence? Is that why her father refuses to look at her, or does he feel guilty for casting her out?

Her eyes drift to the other operatives and she’s thankful to see all of her former teammates have made the trip. Lincoln and Luna give her small, polite smiles from their positions behind her parents. For half-siblings, they’re incredibly in tune. Roan, on the other hand, is outright grinning, never one to care about his reputation. They look fine without her. 

Clarke’s mood sours when she catches Ontari’s eyes. Objectively, she’s a beautiful woman but whenever Clarke looks in her brown eyes, she doesn’t see a soul. Ontari doesn’t have a moral code. She kills for pleasure, for power. It’s never about loyalty or for the betterment of Phoenix. It’s safe to say they’ve never gotten along. Ontari has always viewed Clarke’s success in Phoenix as old-fashioned nepotism, never a product of her refined skill set. 

Ontari’s real issue is that she’s never beaten Clarke in a fight. 

The last people, outside of the standard Phoenix crew members, to exit the cargo plane are Emori, Raven, and Anya. Clarke considers them allies but she’s not sure if they’re friends. She’s gotten shitfaced with Raven a few times while she was home, but outside of that, she hasn’t had much contact with her. Emori’s new to the ranks, recruited after she lifted some sensitive information off a former Phoenix operative. Her father thought it would be better to have her on their side. Anya was born into Phoenix like Clarke but she mainly trains younger soldiers these days after a few close calls in the field. 

Overall, a damn good team. 

Jake Griffin approaches her solemnly. It’s impossible to read his face. He directly asks, “You’ve prepared the bikers?”

_ No hello. No you look good, Clarke. Sorry, I ruined your life. _

“Yes, they didn’t respond to the news well,” Clarke remains stoic as she observes the people around her. Her mother’s clearly relieved to see her, so maybe she doesn’t look as bad as she feels, “They are unaware of the reason for the visit or my personal connection to this unit. I want to keep it that way for now.” 

Ontari snorts, rolling her eyes like a child. Clarke has to remind herself that Ontari is younger than her and just a bitch. She mocks Clarke, “A few minutes in and you’re already calling the shots? Figures.”

Abigail quickly jumps to Clarke’s defense in an icy tone, “There’s no reason to share that information with foot soldiers, Ontari. Mind your tone.” She turns her attention back on Clarke, “It’s good to see you, love. I wish the circumstances were better.” 

Their accents bring her unimaginable comfort. _Home_. 

Jake nods, unable to share his sentiments with the group. She’s not sure if it’s because he’s trying to appear strong in the face of crisis or because he’s so emotionally numb to the situation that he legitimately doesn’t care for her anymore after all their fighting. 

“They might have a connection to the Russians. Trade. Skaikru offers security,” She takes a deep breath before she makes a damning decision, “I believe they’re unaware how deep this goes.”

Her father appears displeased, “We’ll see.”

_ Do you not trust me? _

Clarke speaks before she thinks because of her frustration, “I said they’re unaware.”

“Is there something I should know about your involvement with Skaikru?” Jake’s tone is low as he assesses her reaction. He’s not used to Clarke’s direct defiance in the field but things have changed. He created this situation. He created this version of her. Clarke shakes her head. He doesn’t need to know about her and Bellamy. It’s irrelevant. He nods, “Good because I expect loyalty, Clarke. Past grievances aside.”

_ Grievances? You exiled me. _

She bites out, “You have it.”

Jake reaches behind his back and pulls out a gun. Her gun. Finally, he meets her eyes. There’s hope in them for her and it makes Clarke’s chest hurt. A small smile forms on his lips, “You’ll need this, then. We, uh, also brought you a belated birthday gift.” 

Ontari sighs and Abby shoots her a glare. Clearly, her mother has lost patience for the wretched beast. 

Jake turns around, signaling the Phoenix crew members on the plane. A few minutes later, she catches the gleam of an emerald green car rolling off the plane. 

An Audi. 

The car is followed by a new Audi SUV, most likely her parent’s vehicle oriented for American roads. 

Her eyes widen in shock as she takes in the car. She’s not one for extravagant gifts but she can appreciate a masterpiece. Clarke dumbly asks, “You brought me a car?”

Abigail’s response is tinged with guilt, “We were going to ship it but we didn’t want it to send the wrong message.” _That you weren’t going to call me home. _

She murmurs an awkward, “Thanks.”

Her father doesn’t give too much away. Jake starts barking orders, “Okay, let’s get Madi back. Roan, Lincoln, Luna, ride with Clarke. Take the Audi.”

Lincoln answers formally, “Yes, sir.”

“We’ll follow,” Jake tells her intrepidly then switches gears, “Ontari, stop looking at Clarke like she kicked your dog. I expect teamwork here. It’s time to bring Madi home.” 

Her mother tenses at the mention of Madi’s name. Clarke wants to tell her mom that she understands but she knows the words won’t come out right. 

Clarke bites the inside of her cheek, “What about my car?” 

Her real concern is that she’s left something inside. It’s merely anxiety because she keeps her vehicle spotless. There’s only a gun under the seat, and what’s the big deal about that?

He raises an eyebrow, “Would you prefer it? I thought this might be a good...gift. Anya will drive it.” 

Her father means to say _ apology _ but she doesn’t push. Clarke can’t be bought off with a car. She’s never been that type of girl. Still, everyone’s under enough stress as it is and she doesn’t want to push the issue. 

She tries to be funny, “Absolutely not.”

Her father doesn’t smile. 

Roan and Luna sit in the backseat while Lincoln settles in the front of the Audi. Clarke’s mouth almost waters when she checks out the gray leather interior. It’s a fucking dream. 

She places her gun between the center console and her seat. Her favorite weapon. Roan rolls his eyes as the engine purrs to life with a press of a button, “Just in case you were wondering, it’s an Audi RS 5 Sportsback in Sonoma Green.” 

“Don’t mind him. He’s jealous,” Luna rolls her eyes, leaning forward until she’s in Clarke’s personal space. Her unruly red hair is in an imperfect bun and she looks exhausted. Clarke feels her pain. Luna whispers, “He doesn’t understand that you’ve had to serve hard time to get it.”

Clarke smirks as she puts the car in drive and presses down on the gas. It’s reactive. Way more intuitive than her Toyota. She hums, “It is a nice car.”

“Raven’s running facial recognition around the clock. We’re waiting for Cage to deliver his terms instead of playing baseless games. If he didn’t want anything, Madi would be--” Lincoln stops speaking, looking down at his hands as he regains tact. His point is valid. The only problem is she’s pretty sure what Cage wants and she’s pretty sure it’s her. Dead, if she’s lucky. “If this Skaikru group is involved with the Mountain Men that gives us a better idea on location. We can figure out how they operate.”

Luna leans back in her seat as she looks out the window. Clarke knows that she’s thinking _damn this place is hideous_. Naturally, she’s right. 

Luna sighs, “What do you know about Skaikru? I find it odd that Cage would even bother. It’s not like a low-level motorcycle gang can meet his demands. They’re probably struggling to deliver as is...”

Clarke sighs and tries to think of a good way to answer, “It’s a small town. I’ve been working as a waitress at a diner where Skaikru launders money. Overall, they’re just doing what they have to do to survive. I don’t think they’re openly trying to hurt Phoenix or Madi. That’s not their style. They need the IRAs connections to thrive.”

A moment passes as her team considers her words. 

Roan whistles, “That’s high praise. We stand by you. Between us, I don’t think your parents can handle another loss. Your father isn’t thinking clearly.”

_Because he knows how this ends. _

“Madi’s an innocent,” Clarke speaks slowly, “She doesn’t have blood on her hands like the rest of us. Cage deliberately chose someone we couldn’t rationalize losing.”

Luna mumbles, “Sick bastard.”

“What does Skaikru have that Cage wants, though?” Lincoln asks, referring to Luna’s musings. Clarke purposely bypassed that part. 

_ Me. My future. My happiness. _

Clarke lies smoothly, “Nothing that I know of. Then again, I’m not privy to their business handlings.”

The car goes silent as she tries to wrap her head around what happens next. Her stomach is doing somersaults as she gets closer to Skaikru’s compound. She wonders how Bellamy spent his night. Maybe he called up Echo and fucked her. Maybe he lost himself in someone else. 

Like always, her mind entertains the worst. 

Clarke watches as Roan looks out his window, disgust evident on his face. He mumbles. “This place looks like hillbilly hell. How have you survived?” 

“There’s a ballet studio.” _And there was a boy._

She turns down the road that leads to the compound, dodging the occasional pothole. The gates are open, which is unusual before business hours, and she sees a dozen bikes carefully lining the lane towards the garage doors.

Bellamy heeded her warning it seems. Clarke’s not sure if her father will take their preparation as a threat or not, but she definitely hopes he doesn’t. 

It’s their right.

Either way, she shouldn’t give a damn about Skaikru. Not now. Not here. 

Roan and Luna exit the car first so they can open her parent’s doors as a sign of respect. Clarke watches through her rearview mirror. Roan seems to be singing a song to himself, completely unbothered per usual. Luna, on the other hand, looks fierce and suspicious of her surroundings. They make for a great first impression of Phoenix. 

Clarke’s proud of her team. They’ve continued to prosper in her absence. 

The garage doors start to open with a metal-on-metal sound only filtered by the fact she hasn’t bothered to get out of her car, yet. It all becomes real once she does. Clarke takes a deep breath when she sees Kane and Bellamy walking ahead of their people. 

Bellamy’s seething, and she doesn’t blame him. She can tell by the set of his jaw, the way his eyebrows furrow with unpleasant thoughts. He’s looking at her old car, waiting for her to exit. She watches as brief disappointment crosses his features when Anya and Emori emerge instead. 

Lincoln catches on sooner than Clarke would like, “If you’re in some type of trouble, I’ve got your back…”

She lies to protect him, “I’m fine.”

Clarke and Lincoln get out of the car and she once again feels detached from her true self. Her heart is bruised, but everything about her is trademark Clarke Griffin. Her hair is braided back like a warrior and she’s wearing a tight, alluring black shirt and a pair of dark green skinny jeans that accent her femininity.

She sits on the hood of her car, avoiding the stares of Bellamy’s people. Lincoln mirrors her actions, daring the members of Skaikru to test him. He’s always been protective like an older brother. Clarke’s never been more grateful.

He whispers, “That’s an interesting reaction.”

“I’ll explain later.”

Lincoln accepts her response with a curt nod.

Her father walks past her vehicle towards Skaikru with confidence she’s been trying to emulate her entire life. 

She straightens, waiting for orders that don’t come. He should have her by his side. Maybe it’s for the best. 

She knows her father is smiling by his posture. It’s an unnerving sight when a known killer smirks at you like you’ve been friends for years. He extends his hand to Kane with the same bravado, “Jake Griffin.”

Kane returns the handshake, but he’s been caught off guard by Jake’s friendly demeanor. It always works. Clarke hears him say, “Marcus Kane, President of Skaikru. What brings you to Arkadia?”

Jake speaks casually, “Cage Wallace has kidnaped my granddaughter.”

It’s a test. Clarke watches Kane’s face for signs of dishonesty. He’s shocked. That’s good.

She returns her gaze to her feet.

Kane swallows, “We know Cage.”

Clarke’s eyes widen slightly before she can think better of it. _Well, this is fucking great. And he didn’t even offer his condolences. _

Kane launches into an explanation quickly, most likely because of her father’s expression, “We didn’t know the Irish had issues with the Russians. We have an IRA transplant, John Murphy, in our ranks to keep us up to date. We provide security at the docks for a client that deals with Wallace’s crew.”

Clarke thinks it’s clever to use Murphy as a scapegoat. Kane is doing a good job of pretending to be vulnerable. She’s not sure if he’s telling the full truth, but she knows her father isn’t going to eliminate the entire gang at the moment. 

They have information they need.

Jake’s voice is falsely pleasant, “Cage Wallace and the Russians aren’t synonymous. Just like my team and I aren’t the face of Irish dealings.”

“Meaning?”

Her father implores her once more, glancing over his shoulder to stare at her. His eyes ask, “Can we trust them with this?”

Clarke nods, giving him the okay even though she’s not sure herself. At the end of the day, whether Skaikru chooses to follow Cage’s quick money or not, she needs their trust now. She needs Bellamy’s trust. 

This is the only way to get it. Even with the risk.

Their brief exchange doesn’t go unnoticed by Skaikru. 

He turns back to Kane, “Your government has the CIA. The IRA has Phoenix. Cage leads an organization translated as the Mountain Men. His soldiers are unnecessarily cruel and ruthless.”

“And your people?”

“Operatives solely loyal to Phoenix’s causes, but you aren’t interested in my team’s morality. You want to know about Clarke and if she was sent here to spy on you,” Her father menacingly adds, “If I had known that your organization was so thirsty for money and power, I would have had the foresight to implant someone but alas, that was not my intention. Let’s say, she was put on time out. That’s behind us now, though. Right, Clarke?”

It’s a power move. Not just over them, but her. Jake’s punishing her for her outburst at the airport by forcing her to submit in front of Skaikru. He sees the way they’re looking at her. Here and now, he’s squashing any doubts about her loyalty. 

Clarke bites out, “Yes sir.”

She hasn’t switched her accents, yet. Lincoln gives her a sideways glance but she ignores it. She’s too busy trying to analyze Bellamy’s reaction to her father’s words. His fists are balled up by his sides like he’s ready to fight. She knows how it looks, especially in the absence of all the facts. Clarke wants to assure Bellamy that her true submission belongs to him. 

Kane clears his throat, not willing to fight Jake on Skaikru’s money-hungry reputation. Smart man. He asks, “How can we help?”

“We need to find Cage.”

“Monty can help you. Best hacker we have,” Kane says, motioning towards the man in reference. Clarke’s heart clenches with guilt. She doesn’t want Monty involved in this mess but she supposes it’s inevitable. He agreed to join Skaikru. He accepted the risk. 

“We also have a hacker,” Jake throws a hand signal in the air and Raven steps out of their vehicle. She walks with her head held high, unbothered by the looks of contempt she’s thrown by Skaikru. It’s obvious they aren’t too fond of the number of people her father has brought with him. Her father says, “This is Raven Reyes. We’re currently tuned into every available camera in the region. Cage is laying low.” 

Kane processes the information without commenting on Phoenix’s reach. He greets Raven kindly, “Welcome. Monty, will you show Miss Reyes where to set up?” Monty accepts his task excitedly, probably thrilled to talk to someone else about transmissions and computer shit. Kane asks, “Is there anything else we can do?”

Jake tilts his head to the side and Clarke knows he’s about to make a weird ask just to test their limits, “Our numbers outweigh our sleeping arrangements. We may have more team members joining us as well. I was wondering if you could accommodate some of my people. We’ll be operating in shifts.” _More team members?_

Kane agrees faster than Clarke expected, “Of course. Let’s get to work.”

Never a good sign. _ He’s holding something back. _

Bellamy hesitates as Kane orders the club members to get to work. He meets her pleading eyes as the crowd disperses. Clarke begs for him, and for a moment, she thinks he does for her, too. Then he doesn’t. 

_ I can’t fix this. _

Clarke mimics stone until he finally walks away. Despite wearing her mask well, she can’t stick around all day with this much tension in the air. She can’t watch Ontari and Anya disassemble people she knows with their wicked tongues; she can’t watch Raven fit in with the group better than her; she can’t watch Bellamy lose his feelings for her each time she shows a new side of her identity. Clarke’s not that strong. 

Jake rejoins the team, predictable orders heavy on his tongue. He tells Luna and Lincoln to keep an eye on Skaikru, documenting anything they find weird. Lincoln looks like a bodybuilder and people often mistake him for muscle rather than brains. Luna is beautiful, people love to tell her things, but she’s highly intelligent so she’s often dismissed by men. Jake wants her positioned as a wallflower. 

Her father mutters an order to Emori in fluent French, essentially telling her to appeal to Murphy and find out what he knows. Anya and Ontari are meant to flirt to get information, which Clarke already figured. Ontari has a dark, depraved thing about her that makes men fall to their feet. If she wasn’t such a bitch, Clarke might even admire her. On the other hand, Anya knows how to talk to the rougher crowd. She understands them. 

The whole operation sickens her. Especially since Ontari looks so fucking pleased. 

When Jake turns to Clarke to give her some ridiculous (most likely insulting) task, she interrupts, “I’ve got to go. If Cage is keeping tabs on my whereabouts then I need to stick to my routine. I have a shift at the diner.”

It’s not that she doesn’t want to help, she just knows that it’s useless for them to waste all their resources before Cage sends another message. She’s not going to twirl her hair and kiss ass. Every move he’s making is about infiltrating Skaikru, not finding Madi. He needs to be honest about what’s really happening here.

For starters, they’re fucked.

“Right. Maintain cover. Go, then.” Jake says as if it was his idea. She pushes herself off the hood of her car when he adds, “And, Clarke?”

“Hmm?”

“Be careful, please.”

Ontari places her hand on the door frame as Clarke slides in. Clarke’s tempted but she doesn’t break any of her fingers. She immediately regrets the decision when Ontari opens her stupid mouth, “So, which one have you been screwing?”

Clarke doesn’t answer. 

“Guess it doesn’t matter, Griffin. I’ll be showing him what a real Phoenix looks like since it seems you were incapable.”

Clarke meets Ontari’s eyes, “Heed my warning now, bitch. If you try to cross me or hurt anyone I care about, I’ll send you home in a body bag,” An evil thought crosses her mind as Ontari victoriously grins down at her, “Leave Nathan alone.”

_Yeah, waste your time, darling._

The beast steps away with a swing in her steps. She knows it’s not nice of her to subject Miller to Ontari for the rest of the day, but really, it’ll give her some satisfaction to know that her opponent is desperately trying to fuck a gay man while she’s spiraling at The Dropship. 

-x-

Every few minutes, she looks out the diner’s window, searching for Cage Wallace’s face. She knows that she’s being watched somehow. He’s probably laughing at her efforts to maintain normalcy. The truth is, she’s doing it for her sanity. Cage is smart and obviously well-connected. He knows that her family is in California. He knows that he’s being hunted down like a dog by all of their allies. He’s not going to jeopardize his mission with careless mistakes.

If she were him, she would be hiding out in the rural, underdeveloped areas close enough to make her targets’ hair rise on the back of their neck. She’d pick a place like Arkadia where CCTV isn’t a priority. There’s too many places like that here to sweep without raising suspicion from locals. All she would have to do is wait. Eventually, her targets would get desperate as the last ounces of hope drained from them after every effort turns up meaningless results. Then, she would strike. 

Her mind drifts to the music box. The decapitated ballerina. The rattle. 

She’s the target. The only problem is he has to weaken all of her connections in order to win. He’s already fucked up her relationship with Bellamy, what’s next? 

Clarke knows her days are numbered. Cage will eventually ask for her in exchange for Madi. Optimistically, Madi lives. Realistically, they both die. The only mercy she can pray for is that Madi doesn’t suffer the brutal ending that’s in store for Clarke. 

She shakes away her depressing thoughts. 

Macallan, a substitute cook and potential prospect for Skaikru, is flipping burgers on the grill. He can cook better than Wick, which has granted them more of a presence tonight. Clarke’s making decent tips, not that it matters. The crowd is starting to thin as it gets later in her shift. A few people are hanging around, politely talking with one another about the highs and lows of small-town life. 

Harper idly chats with them while pointedly ignoring her. 

Clarke’s feet are starting to hurt, especially as exhaustion seeps through her bones. It’s been over 24 hours since she slept but even then, she’s not sure peace can find her until she handles her affairs. 

She’s wiping down sticky tables when the bell dings. Wells Jaha looks at her with an endearing smile. At least there’s one local that doesn’t hate her. She returns his smile because it’s the first relatively human contact that she’s had all day outside of disinterested customers.

For all his faults, Wells cares for her. 

Her voice breaks a little when she asks, “Your usual?”

“Maybe I’ve decided to be unpredictable,” He teases, removing his jacket to comfortably sit at the bar. He turns his attention to Macallan, “How are you doing?” 

Macallan appears guilty for his involvement with Skaikru. Clarke knows Wells considers it a personal loss every time someone crosses over. He’ll probably try to convince Macallan to do the right thing, but he’ll be unsuccessful once Macallan gets his first paycheck. 

That’s life. 

Macallan politely smiles, “Not too bad. Wick said this place is never busy.”

Harper snorts and kindly says, “Because Wick can’t cook. You’re doing a good job. That’s why we’re busy.”

Clarke stops scrubbing the tables and scribbles down Wells’s order for Macallan from memory. She hands it to the boy, not making direct eye contact because of her shame. Maybe he doesn’t know what’s going on but eventually, he will and he’ll also hate her on principle. 

Wells is still beaming at her when he asks, “Did you get a new car?”

Harper pauses out the corner of Clarke’s eyes, her annoyance evident. Clarke understands that it must be a slap in the face for her. Harper busts her ass to make ends meet for her family and she thought Clarke was on her level. She wants to tell her that it’s not personal, that she wishes things were different, but Harper’s not ready to hear that. 

Clarke replies awkwardly, “Uh, yeah, a gift from my parents. A little ostentatious, I’ll admit.” 

“An Audi is one hell of a gift,” Wells says as Clarke pours him a cup of coffee and fishes a few creams out of her apron. He changes the subject, realizing she doesn’t want to talk about her parents, “How are you doing?”

The bell rings again before Clarke can answer the question. Her entire body tenses when she meets her father’s eyes. He looks pissed off about something. What if he found out? What if he knows? Her mother is following close behind him, but she’s only slightly peeved.

Lincoln, Raven, Emori, Anya, and Ontari follow. Lincoln gives her an exasperated look as they push tables together to accommodate the group. 

A few seconds later, members of Skaikru enter the diner including Bellamy and Kane. Wick looks annoyed to see her working, but pleased with the state of his business. People begin to leave, sensing the club needs privacy. Wick takes the tips off the tables as people exit, handing them all to Harper.

_Asshole_. 

“Are you okay?” Wells asks Clarke in a low whisper, most likely sensing her irritation. 

By the grace of God, she forces a smile, “Yeah, yeah. Just tired. It’s been a busy day.”

“Hey, Macallan, can you switch mine to a to-go order? Don’t want to overload Clarke, here.”

He gives her a sweet smile and Clarke knows that he’s showing off in front of Bellamy and the rest of Skaikru. Macallan nods, dropping his friendly demeanor towards Wells for his future brothers. 

“Thanks, Wells. That’s why you’re my favorite,” She didn’t have to say it. The urge came and went faster than her better judgment. Her team doesn’t seem phased, but she can tell Bellamy is incensed. 

Harper moves to take the orders of Skaikru but Clarke waits until Wells clears the diner to tend to her family. The man leaves her a generous tip, waving as he leaves. 

Clarke softly smiles, once again wondering if he knows that his father is a snake. 

Her father glances over at Skaikru’s table with blatant disdain. Apparently, things didn’t go well today. Perhaps Kane isn’t giving Phoenix enough room to run. 

Clarke hates to think that Kane would put his pride above the life of a child, but then again, he is a man. History is full of foolish men with weak constitutions. 

She wants to shake them by the shoulders and explain that if they can’t work together, Madi dies and Clarke dies trying to save her. 

But she doesn’t want to put that pressure on Bellamy’s shoulders. Especially when it probably doesn’t matter what they accomplish here. Right now, they’re just grasping for miracles that won’t come. 

She walks over to her family’s table and puts on her best customer service smile for their benefit. If she’s looking at the end of time, then she wants to make them laugh.Clarke wants to feel lightweight in their presence and give them something new to hold onto during the dark days ahead. 

She exaggerates her American accent, asking, “What can I get y’all?”

Raven’s amused, answering in her own exaggerated American accent, “Is the shot of penicillin complimentary with every combo?” 

Her father deadpans but it’s clear he’s also amused, “Raven, please, stop being an insufferable jackass. I have a headache.”

Abigail Griffin, forever on a health kick, looks over the menu with genuine repugnance. She mutters, “Christ on a bike, what do you even eat here, my love?” Her mother looks up to meet Wick’s eyes from across the diner. He’s clearly eavesdropping and he’s not pleased with their behavior. Abby says, “No offense to your, er, establishment.”

Wick fakes a smile, “None taken.”

He might as well have given her the bird. 

“Look, these aren’t so bad,” Clarke points out the burgers and all the offered sides, still using her American accent. She just doesn’t want to let it go, yet. “The true American experience. Macallan is a good cook.”

Her father regards her strangely, “We trust you, Clarke. Join us when you’re finished.”

“I’m working.”

Abby speaks up before her father can publicly reprimand her, “Take a break. Eat with your family. Tell us about your life here...it seems fascinating.”   
  
Clarke’s surprised that she’s speaking in Arabic rather than English. She hasn’t heard the beautiful language in so long. It brings her a sense of comfort. 

Clarke responds, proud that her tongue doesn’t stumble over the more difficult pronunciations, “You do not have to humor this hellhole, mother. I am not attached to it. Give me a moment. I want to hear about everything I have missed.”

Her mother smiles. She’s missed her mother’s smile. 

She writes down their orders and hands them to Macallan, who looks absolutely torn and overwhelmed. She fills her family’s drink orders and brings them over slowly, a false smile gracing her lips every time.

Harper is sitting next to Monty now. The locals are starting to clear out. It dawns on her that this is the first time she’s stayed after work and sat with people that genuinely love her. She’s never been invited to stay with Bellamy as a friend or partner...maybe she would’ve been. 

The realization triggers her emotions.

_ I’ve been so lonely here_, she wants to confess to her family, but she doesn’t. 

Clarke decides not to eat anything because she doesn’t think her stomach can handle it. She settles in between Raven and Lincoln. Lincoln nudges her with his shoulder, sensing something is bothering her. They haven’t talked, yet. Clarke hasn’t decided if she’s going to completely spill her guts or not. She doesn’t want him to be disappointed in her. 

Abby starts spouting off nonsense in her thick Irish accent, “The Walsh family is moving to Barbados at the end of this month.”

She pretends to listen to her mother’s Dublin gossip but the entire time, she’s watching Skaikru’s reflection in the diner’s windows. Occasionally, she catches Bellamy’s eyes but he’s quick to turn away each time. It reminds her of their time apart. 

“Order up,” Macallan says and Wick hollers in sweet victory. Harper’s laugh makes Clarke’s chest hurt. 

That could’ve been their inside joke. Instead, she’s an outsider. Both within and without. Clarke stands and fetches what she can. Lincoln helps, placing a friendly hand on her hip to announce that he’s behind her before grabbing some of the plates. Or maybe he’s trying to persuade Skaikru to leave her alone by faking possessiveness. 

Bellamy won’t like that. 

After everyone has their food, they wait for her father to start the blessing. Before her father can open his mouth, Aurora and Octavia walk into the diner. Aurora takes a step closer to their table like she’s going to confront Clarke openly. Abby takes in the scene quickly and meets the woman’s eyes. 

No one messes with her baby. 

_ Oh, this is going to be great. _

Kane’s voice breaks through the tension, “Aurora.”

Ontari smiles like the evil bitch she is, “You really know how to make a great impression, don’t you, Clarke?”

“Enough, Ontari,” Jake says harshly, “Let us pray.”

Clarke intertwines her fingers with Raven and Lincoln, reciting the old Catholic prayer her family has been using her entire life, “Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ our Lord.” 

It echoes in the diner as Skaikru ceases conversation, most likely out of ordered respect. 

Her father continues the prayer, “Thank you for protecting Clarke during her time away. Please look after sweet Madi and save her from our demons. We look forward to bringing them home where they belong. Amen, father.”

Her people say, “Amen.”

Clarke keeps her eyes closed for a second longer, _Please keep Bellamy safe,_ “Amen.”

To her surprise, Raven holds her hand for a moment. It’s sweet. She wonders if everyone can see that she’s falling apart at the seams. 

“I wish you would eat, Clarke. You don’t look well,” Abby scolds her over the noise of Emori violently shaking a ketchup bottle. Unfortunately, her disappointment can be heard by everyone in the diner because Skaikru hasn’t resumed talking, yet, “Truly, I worry about what being here has done to you.”

Jake sighs, “Oh, give it rest, Abigail. You don’t need to coddle our operatives.”

_ Right, keep it in check, mom. _

Her mother pouts, “Well, no one else is saying it. Lincoln, do you think Clarke looks well?”

Lincoln tries to be diplomatic, “I think Clarke looks as beautiful as the last time I saw her.” 

“Smooth,” Jake smirks as he takes a strong sip of coffee, “But, as you know, Clarke is not solely defined by beauty. You’re mistaken to limit her so blandly.” 

Lincoln grins in return, “Then, I owe you an apology, Miss _Chase_.”

“Apology accepted,” Clarke laughs, elbowing Lincoln discreetly. 

Jake’s face falls and he goes completely silent. Clarke recognizes the look. He feels it, too. Their eyes on them. Cage’s eyes on them. 

Jake whispers, “He’s here and he’s watching.” He turns his attention back to Clarke, “I need you to gather some information. Tonight. Go to Los Angeles, to Vosk. By the time you get there, the party will just be starting. We need answers.”

He seems conflicted about sending Clarke into the den but she’s the only one that can do it. She’s fluent in Russian and pretty enough to get accepted in the club. Ontari and Anya have traditionally been too rigid and Raven and Emori are squints. 

“Los Angeles?” Kane interrupts, not even hiding the fact that he was eavesdropping. Clarke meets Bellamy’s eyes in the window again. Same anger...but there’s a tinge of concern there, too. 

She rationalizes that it’s for the baby. 

“Perceptive,” Jake smiles falsely and Clarke hopes his word usage doesn’t strike Bellamy. Isn’t that what she had said to him yesterday morning? “I was just sending Clarke on a much needed field trip.”

Kane glances at his son. Bellamy subtly agrees to whatever silent question his father has asked. He says, “Miller can go with her.”

“I would prefer one of my own.”

Clarke breaks eye contact with Bellamy, knowing why they want Miller to come with her. Bellamy doesn’t want to share space with her but he wants someone to report back on her actions. He trusts Miller. Clarke speaks in Arabic again, “If we cooperate, they will back off. It’s just a nightclub.”

Jake considers it. 

“Fair point,” he responds in English then replies to Kane, “I accept your offer. They will leave after dinner.”

Bellamy and Clarke go back to staring at each other in the window. He tilts his head, trying to read her expressions but she’s not giving anything away.

Clarke’s terrified. She’s worried about being sent back in the field. What if this is what Cage wants? What if something happens to Miller? What if she has to kill someone tonight?

She bites the inside of her cheek and stands, going to the bathroom. She feels sick but she doesn’t throw up. Clarke’s not sure how long she stands there, just staring at herself in the mirror. _What’s wrong with you, Griffin? _

A knock breaks her from her trance. 

She sighs, “I’m in here.”

Bellamy’s voice startles her, “We need to talk.”

She opens the door and he steps in, closing in behind him. It’s quick. Clarke’s heart thumps and she dumbly thinks, _your mother would be outraged if she knew you were in the bathroom with a boy. _

_ Fuck, they probably do know. _

“I can’t do this right now.”

He fixes her with a glare, “I wasn’t asking.”

The space is so small. She can smell the cigarettes on his clothes, and the small hints of his body wash. Clarke wants to melt into him but she knows that’s not possible. Not now. 

She takes a deep breath. 

“You really don’t look well.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, “Insightful.”

He runs his fingers through his hair, “I’m trying here, Clarke. Believe me, it’s not easy. I don’t know—Griffin’s an asshole and he talks about you like you—everyone looks at you—what the fuck is going on?”

“I can’t talk about it here.” 

Bellamy seems to be struggling in a way she’s never seen, “If our child is in danger, I have the right to know. Fuck, Clarke, if you’re in danger, I have the right to know.” 

Hope blooms in her chest. He hasn’t completely given up on her, then. 

Maybe.

Clarke takes a risk, “Then, you come with me tonight. Not Miller.”

_ Please. _

She sees the heat in his eyes when he murmurs, “Kane thinks I need distance. He doesn’t think I can be objective when it comes to you. Doesn’t trust your friends.” 

She leans into him on reflex, pretending it's to hear him better. Bellamy gives her a half-smile, knowing exactly what she’s doing. He’s fucking intoxicating. 

She coyly smirks, rising on her tiptoes so she can whisper in his ear, “I’ll let you in on a little secret. My friends don’t trust Skaikru, either.”

Bellamy huffs and looks down at her, “I should put you over my knee, but I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“If you come to Los Angeles, you’ll have plenty of time to think of a good reason, sir,” Clarke says, feigning innocence. He leans down, placing a chaste kiss on her lips. 

It’s quick and she doubts Bellamy’s thinking it through. 

She desperately chases his mouth when he tries to pull away. Her fingers tangle in his hair as she wills him to stay with her. Bellamy groans, leaning down to grab her thighs so he can lift her up. She feels the sink against her behind as he sets her down. Clarke immediately wraps her legs around him. 

_ Yes. Please. More. _

He breaks their embrace, “Take your pants off.”

Clarke provocatively licks her lips, shaking her head _ no,_“They’ll be missing me. I’ve got to go by my house. Meet me there?”

He sucks in a deep, shuttering breath. 

“Miller will be relieved,” Bellamy smooths down her hair with his hands. His eyes drift to her lips and she knows that he wants to kiss her again. He fights the urge. “Apparently he doesn’t trust Jackson not to watch the new episode of _ The Curse of Oak Island _ without him or some shit.”

She cracks a smile, “That’s tough.”

Bellamy steps away from her, “I’ve got a lot of questions, Clarke...but I realized that I would’ve made the same choice.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I would have.”

Bellamy leaves her on the bathroom sink. Clarke exhales, looking around the room for divine inspiration. _ What the hell? _

She exits the restroom and walks back to her table. Lincoln gives her a knowing look but Abby appears wholly concerned. She whispers “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine. Just needed a minute to think,” Clarke lies easily. She grapples for something worth thinking about and comes up with a plan for tonight. She addresses Raven, “Did you bring any fakes for me?”

Raven looks amused, “IDs, passports, credit cards, what are you looking for?”

Clarke’s impressed, “I’m thinking about pulling a high-roller scam tonight.”

Her mother tsks with disapproval but her father smiles fondly, “It’s risky, Clarke. You could pick the wrong girl and then we achieve nothing.” He’s goading her, trying to encourage her to think clearly about her mission. He’s trained her to think about everything that could possibly go wrong. 

“With Cage in town, they won’t make a move in public,” Clarke reasons in a whisper, “We need to get a Natasha alone. The best way to do that is throw around some money, take her to a secondary location and get confirmation about who is in town. Cage might be working with other enemies.” That’s always a risk. Phoenix has no shortage of enemies. She continues, “And maybe if we’re lucky, she’s seen something. Madi, even.”

Jake rubs a hand over his face and looks over at Skaikru’s table. Bellamy and Kane are discussing something heatedly. Kane doesn’t look particularly pleased. She knows that they’re talking about her. Her father seems pleased by their momentary distraction.

“Fine. Raven, give Clarke what she needs from the car,” He takes a deep breath and then addresses Clarke, “You need to get on the road.”

Clarke stands, placing a hand on Lincoln’s shoulder. She can tell that he’s worried about her going to LA. She can’t tell anyone that she feels safe going to Los Angeles tonight because Cage won’t ruin a well-crafted plan, even if she is on his turf. Lincoln places his hand over hers, “Be safe, Clarke.”

She takes off her apron, folding it over her arms. Her mother says something to Raven in a hushed tone but Clarke doesn’t catch it. She starts to walk to the back with her head held high, purposely not looking at Aurora. 

Jake calls her name, and she turns. He gives her a pointed look, “Try not to kill anyone, princess.”

Raven follows her outside, immediately lighting a cigarette and laughing, “Is this what it’s like to be a field agent? The tension is delicious.” Clarke turns around, walking backward to her parent’s Audi so she can accurately judge the woman. Raven throws Clarke a grin, “And the men are hot as fuck. You ever knock boots with Wick?”

“Ew, no,” Clarke scoffs, “See you’re picking up the local dialect, though.” 

“You need to learn to live. So uptight,” Raven playfully chides, finally catching up with Clarke, “I thought some time off might loosen you up.”

Clarke shrugs, “It hasn’t been a fucking vacation, Reyes. Just show me what you got.”

“You need to get laid and you need to drop the accent. It’s freaking everyone out,” Raven says gruffly, “I’ve got two different identities for you. Given, when I carefully created them, I didn’t think you were going to burn through one on some lavish night in Los Angeles.”

“Didn’t you just say I need to live?”

Raven’s not impressed with her humor. She sighs, “I don’t have anything for that Miller guy. Well, cash. I think he’s a hopeless choice for undercover work, though.”

Clarke tries to be nonchalant, “Actually, I think Bellamy’s coming instead.”

“Oh. Hmm,” Raven hums to herself for a moment and Clarke has to bite down her possessiveness. Raven doesn’t mean any harm. She seems satisfied with the roster change, “Dark and sexy. The Natashas will eat him up. All he has to do is flash a little cash, leave a hotel key and they’ll be eating out of his palm.” 

“Yeah, right,” Clarke crosses her arms and waits for Raven to fish out the necessary collateral. 

Raven continues with a knowing smirk, “He just has a vibe.”

“A vibe?” Clarke asks, pretending she hasn’t noticed. 

“I don’t know, a whole daddy vibe,” Raven says and hands Clarke her temporary new life. Her heart speeds up, fearing that Raven is totally on to her. The woman doesn’t seem phased by Clarke’s hesitance. She continues speaking, “You know, like Fifty Shades? Yeah, I watched the movies. And read the books.”

Clarke sifts through her new identity, pausing when she reads the name, “Meredith Blake. Really?”

“Hey, that’s a coincidence. I just like Parent Trap,” Raven says with her hands up, “You know, Lindsay Lohan. Twins separated by their parent’s awful divorce reunited at summer camp.”

She’s pretty sure she’s going to strain her eyes from rolling them so much, “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re wasting time. Don’t you have a mission? Here. Big bills.” She hands Clarke a stack of rolled cash with a raised eyebrow. Clarke flips through it quickly, allowing the air to fan her face. This will do. “And hey, I know I joke around a lot but I’m taking this seriously. Madi’s a great kid.”

Clarke sighs, “You know her better than I do.”

“That’s not true.”

“You don’t have to protect my feelings. Thanks, Raven. Phoenix couldn’t function without you.”

“Stay safe out there,” Raven says quietly. 

Clarke nods, “Will do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only good thing about being on quarantine is having tons of time to write. As always, comment your favorite part about the chapter below. I look forward to your feedback! It always makes my day monumentally better. 
> 
> My favorite part about this chapter was exploring a part of Clarke that still wants her family's love and approval even as she's starting to find her humanity. Clarke loves her family, she loves her friends, and yes, she still loves who she used to be because it's familiar but Bellamy's always there pulling her back to what she's becoming. My favorite part was Raven, obviously. 
> 
> Much love,
> 
> Norvina


	9. Chapter 9

Clarke’s hands are steady when she opens the brown leather case containing her extraction tools. Something tells her that she shouldn’t feel so chipper about the possibility of torture, but she can’t resist the thrill. 

Everything is exactly how she left it. Sterile and inviting. The only thing filthying them up is the gnawing guilt in her gut. 

Bellamy’s distant voice cuts through her moral dilemma, “Clarke!” 

His footfalls are heavy as he runs up the stairs. Clarke tosses the leather case in her duffel bag along with her other choice weapons before he catches her. She doesn’t want to answer his questions about her intentions because frankly, she doesn’t have any answers for what she’s prepared to do tonight. 

Well, except  _ anything  _ to get Madi home. 

Bellamy enters her room with his gun drawn. The second he realizes that she’s not in danger, he frowns, “There’s a psycho on the loose and you left your door unlocked?”

“He won’t come here tonight.”

Clarke zips the duffel and then walks to the closet to pick out her outfit. Something sexy. Vosk is a front for another segment of the Russian mob. It’s sexy, high-energy and not the type of place that’ll accept her minimum effort attire. 

She hears Bellamy shuffle and assumes he’s reholstering his weapon, “You sound confident.” 

Clarke’s sure he means it as an accusation. 

It’s fine. It’s what she deserves. 

Clarke’s fingers glide over the fabric of her limited club dresses. She pretends that she’s more interested in the designs than conversation just to prolonged the inevitable inquisition. 

How does she tell him that Cage wants her at his mercy? How does she tell  _ Bellamy  _ that Cage won’t break into her house tonight because he wants an audience? He doesn’t need that shit in his head. 

Clarke mutters, “Cage is predictable.”

“You know him well, then?” Bellamy prompts but she acts like she doesn’t hear his question. Clarke pulls a random black dress from the rack and folds it over her arm. Bellamy tightly says, “Look at me.”

She faces him but can’t meet his eyes. He’ll see right through her if she does.

A little voice in the back of her head asks,  _ how did you, daughter of Jake Griffin, become so  _ **weak** ?

Bellamy pleads with her, brown eyes shining with hope, “How’d you get wrapped up in this life, baby?”

Clarke scrunches her brows as if she’s in pain. Fuck, she  _ is  _ in pain. Bellamy’s looking at her like she’s worthy of more than lust but she’s fully aware that she isn’t. She was just packing instruments to torture information out of people. 

She doesn’t deserve his compassion.

“Bellamy, I’m not a victim here,” Her eyes are on her feet. She can’t look at him. Clarke can’t bear his disappointment. She clears her throat, hating the way her voice hitches, “We need to get on the road.”

Clarke doesn’t speak until they’re safely on Route 99 and she’s sure they’re not being followed. No armored cars. No Russians. No bikes. She feels the tension leaving her body as she lies back in her seat. 

_ Mm, cozy.  _

Bellamy insisted on driving and she handed him her keys without arguing. It’s a pointless gesture considering both of her cars are push-to-start, but he needed the control and she was happy to give. 

Clarke considers taking a nap but she owes Bellamy some answers. More than some, really. She closes her eyes and takes a deep, calming breath before she starts. 

“I was born into it.” 

Bellamy takes a moment to respond, “Like the girl we’re looking for?”

She’s shocked by his compassion for Mad, and that Phoenix was so forthcoming with details about her niece. Clarke shouldn’t have expected differently, but he’s an outsider. It’s not their way. Bellamy doesn’t wait for her to respond, already gauging the answer. 

“So, Phoenix is a family business?”

“Yeah,” Clarke swallows happy images of her family from  _ before _ , “I never wanted to be anything else—except maybe a ballerina. I chose this life, Bellamy. I need you to understand that.”

He doesn’t say anything and she can feel the blood rushing to her head. It’s not fair how nervous he makes her. 

“Part of the job description was political negotiations. That’s how I know Cage.” 

Then he tried to claim her like a psychotic jackass, of course. If her time in Phoenix could truly be described as a job, she deserves heaps of hazard pay. 

Clarke listens to the sound of the wind moving against the car. She wants to roll down the windows to feel the breeze against her arms, but she doesn’t. She can’t move. 

All she can do is listen to the purr of the engine and the whooshing of the outside world while Bellamy comes to terms with what she’s told him. His silence stretches on for minutes—or it simply seems that way. 

The open road starts to soothe her into a false peace against her better judgment. 

She’s so tired. 

“What does Wallace have against Griffin?” 

“Years of resentment, jealousy,” Clarke fights back a small yawn, “Mainly insecurity.”

“So, Cage kidnaps his granddaughter? Come on,” Bellamy’s tone is light but accusatory. He doesn’t like her well-chosen words. His patience is wearing thin, “Clarke.”

She opens her eyes, fixing her sights on the beaten yellow reflectors on the highway. In her past life, she would have come up with something worthwhile by now. Some line. Some excuse. Some backstory that tied everything up in a perfect bow. 

But she doesn’t want to be like that with Bellamy. 

It might just kill her, but she wants to tell the truth, “I rejected him and now he’s punishing me. That’s why all of this is happening.” 

“Who is Madi to you?”

There’s an unease in his voice that sends shivers down her spine. Or, perhaps, it’s the question. Clarke doesn’t glance in his direction as she speaks, “My niece.”

“Your niece?” 

“Jake and Abby are my parents.”

Clarke closes her eyes again. Time passes languidly as she teeters on the edge of consciousness. The tension in the car is palpable but she feels at ease in it. 

All she can think is,  _ finally.  _

-x-

The Mirabella is an ugly little hotel positioned in front of the nightclub—which once went by ten or so other names before the current owners swooped in. The Yelp reviews are unpleasant to say the least, but management can be bribed not to ask questions. 

Flushed executives like to pay by the hour so they can party with their pretty little Russian dolls. 

Clarke’s only experience with the hotel was three or so years ago when she was gathering information about a politician’s extramarital affair with a freshman at the local college who worked the bar on the weekends. 

Even then, it didn’t seem as beat up as it does now. 

_ I hate my body,  _ Clarke thinks as she twists and turns in front of a dingy mirror. The dress is a wee bit tighter than she anticipated and she feels overly exposed. 

She would do anything for a cardigan. 

Or a cigarette. 

Bellamy is on the phone when she exits—but not his usual. A burner it seems. He makes a series of grunting sounds as acknowledgement to whatever the other person is saying and then grumbles, “Alright, keep me updated.”

He stares out the small window for a few seconds after he hangs up, then notices he’s being watched. 

His jaw loosens as he takes her in. Clarke can’t help but flush under his roaming eyes. Bellamy roughly says, “You look…”

“Ridiculous,” Clarke supplies. 

“Not at all,” Bellamy smirks, “Different, though. Your dress is very short.”

Clarke wants to grin. She likes playful Bellamy. It’s a good sign, although they’ve yet to fully address the bomb she dropped on him.

“We’re going to a club,” She teases, “I’m required to fit in.”

“Can I take it off of you later?” 

“I don’t know,” Clarke feels a bit feverish at the thought, “Perhaps if you behave.”

As she walks back to the mirror to put on some lipstick she thinks she hears him mumble, “It’d be a shame if you couldn’t sit down for the rest of the night.”

Maybe things will be alright. Maybe they’ll never have to talk about her past beyond their little conversation on the way here. 

Maybe she’s totally delusional. 

-x-

Vosk is an obnoxiously loud and overall unpleasant type of place. Chaotic waves of EDM music vibrate against the tarnished silver and glass walls. An old chandelier with a black thong hanging off of it swings dangerously above the VIP sitting area where young businessmen try their luck with practiced ladies. 

Clarke’s never liked places where you can’t hear yourself think. 

She’s posted up at the bar like they agreed. Her eyes subtly scan the crowds of women. A herd of teenagers are standing in the back of the room looking wholly nervous. Clarke wants to shake them by their shoulders and tell them to  _ go home.  _

This isn’t the type of club where nice girls find happy endings. 

Her premature motherly instinct must have distracted her because she almost chokes on her water when an English accent cuts through the music, “What the fuck are you doing here, Clarke?”

Clarke looks at the dirty glass behind the bar to meet a pair of heavily charcoaled eyes, “I think you know why I’m here. Probably the same reason you are.”

Lexa doesn’t look amused by her cheek. She casually moves to stand beside Clarke, “I thought you were out.”

Clarke’s not certain who Lexa is working for these days. It’s safe to say she’s a freelance spy with the occasional loyalty to English crime syndicates. Regardless, she’s connected. 

Lexa continues the soft interrogation, “Cage Wallace?”

There’s a twinge of something in her voice. Perhaps fear for her old  _ friend.  _

Clarke meets her concerned eyes, “Yes.”

“I’ve never known you to be foolish,” Lexa sucks in an aggravated breath, looking especially cross. Dismissively she adds, “He’s not here, by the way.”

“People change and I’m not here for him tonight,” Clarke has the urge to prove that she’s changed. The girl Lexa knew was...different. More disciplined in a lot of ways, but also cold and focused, “Cage is hiding.”

Lexa is silent for a long moment. 

Clarke has to remind herself that she’s on a mission—that Bellamy needs her to be focused. 

In a whisper, Lexa says, “Not people like us. We don’t change. We can’t.”

Clarke furrows her brows in contemplation. Lexa flags down the bartender, ordering in brisk Russian for them both. 

Reflexively, Clarke interrupts in Russian, “None for me.”

Lexa’s amused by her refined drinking habits, “Perhaps I’m mistaken.”

_ Enough,  _ Clarke thinks and then says, “Cage has Madi.”

An awkward pause follows before Lexa sighs, “We know.”

Clarke doesn’t want to spend too long deciphering who  _ we  _ is these days. Anger bubbles in her chest. They’re talking about a young girl—her  _ niece _ —and Lexa didn’t even consider—

“And you didn’t think to reach out?” Clarke hisses as Lexa collects her drink from the bartender with a charming smile. 

Lexa shrugs, “Phoenix is capable of handling its own problems.”

“I meant to me, Lexa,” Clarke sacrifices her vantage point to glare at the spy. Lexa’s aged since they last saw each other in small, usually insignificant ways. Staring at her now, she feels so foreign. Like a total stranger, “We were friends once.”

Lexa bites back, “More than friends.”

“That was a long time ago,” Clarke doesn’t mean to sound so insensitive to whatever Lexa’s feeling. They had a casual fling when she was eighteen. It was young lust and idealism. Clarke got over it. 

Apparently Lexa didn’t. 

Lexa’s emotions come out like a whip, “You used me so you wouldn’t feel so goddamn empty—“

“Madi’s a child. An innocent,” Clarke’s tone takes the form of a stern reprimand, “Our romantic fucking history or lack thereof has nothing to do with this.”

Lexa stubbornly clenches her jaw. 

“Please, Lexa,” Clarke breathes, “You know how this ends if we don’t find her soon.”

She finishes her drink quickly, slamming the empty glass down on the bar, “I can’t help you, Clarke.”

Clarke tries not to appear affected when she steadily asks, “Can’t or won’t?”

Lexa pushes away from the counter, then shocks Clarke once again, “Oh, look, you’ve brought your boyfriend.”

In an instant, Clarke has Lexa by her arm, “ _ Don’t.”  _

Her mind is spinning. How could Lexa possibly know? Clarke can’t hold onto her American persona anymore, “If I find out that you’re helping or hiding Cage, I’ll hunt you down and kill you, Lexa, and there won’t be any honor in how I do it.”

Lexa doesn’t say anything, even when Clarke releases her. They give each other one last long look, and then Lexa falls into a crowd of intoxicated people and fades away. 

Clarke has to take several deep breaths before she composes herself. She wants to call off the mission but there’s too much to lose. It takes every ounce of her concentration to go back to people watching. 

Bellamy approaches the bar, turning his back to her like they’re strangers when he settles beside her, “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” She lies, “I forgot how much I hate this place.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!
> 
> I know it’s been awhile since I updated. I needed a break from this story. I started watching SOA because my boyfriend liked it and fell in love with it, which is where I got the idea for this fic. There’s no fluffy way to say that he died in May. I just couldn’t face this story or How to Outfox a Millionaire (which I’ll be working on soon) because they’re obviously love stories. 
> 
> I did start writing some angsty Reylo fics though and that was incredibly therapeutic. 
> 
> Let me know what you think about this chapter. Also, I know there are a few issues with the last chapter where italicized inner-thoughts didn’t get formatted correctly when I transferred them over. So sorry about that! I’ll be fixing it soon. 
> 
> Thank you for your continued support. It means the world to me. I look forward to reading your comments!!
> 
> Norvina 
> 
> P.S. Next chapter will continue with this mission and things get...🤐


	10. Chapter 10

_ Focus, Clarke. _

Her eyes sweep over young women in tight jewel-colored dresses and borrowed heels. They look nervous and elated as they check for expensive watches, ring tan-lines, and engraved money clips. 

Watching them work forces a knot in Clarke’s stomach. They’re all someone’s daughter. Then again, how is she any better? 

Bellamy’s picking at a bowl of peanuts and making casual conversation with other patrons. He’s asked a pretty brunette with a high voice about the artist of her infinity sign tattoo. She stammered through her response. Minutes later he was discussing the accrued interest on 401Ks like a seasoned professional. 

Jesus Christ, he’s good at everything, isn’t he? Clarke’s having a hard time focusing on the crowd of people because of him. She could listen to him flatter strangers forever. 

But then she’ll see a flash of brunette hair in the crowd, and remember Lexa’s unnerving reappearance. There’s a reason she’s in California. Clarke doesn’t believe in coincidences. That doesn’t mean she isn’t holding onto a certain level of hope that she’s wrong. 

Her knuckles ache for her gun, just like her feet long for a good chase. If Lexa doesn’t give her another option, she won’t hesitate to end her life. There was once a time when she would have--

It wasn’t love. Clarke was too committed to her people for it to ever be love. But she used to have a certain fondness for the woman, and that counts for something. Actually, that meant _ everything _in her former life. 

It was the difference between a wavering gun and a kill shot. 

But not if Lexa’s working with Cage. 

After a few more minutes of people watching, Clarke finally settles on a woman wearing a tight designer dress and thin-strapped wedges. All the younger girls are staring at her with unconcealed envy. She’s their main competition, but possibly a mentor. Everything from her perfect hair, to her well-done makeup, tells Clarke that she’s the best at what she does. 

And she enjoys the finer things in life. Clarke’s willing to bet she has a fast car in the parking lot paid for by a man with a large bank account and an aging wife. 

“The brunette on the couch next to the redhead,” Clarke quietly says, eyes not straying from her target. The woman’s head is thrown back in a fake laugh as she entertains a balding business exec. His hands shake as he holds his mostly empty scotch. He doesn’t do this often, but he’s lonely. He needs some type of human interaction or he won’t survive. And he had to get completely sloshed to do it. 

Clarke thinks the man is a lazy target. He’s not even the biggest fish in the pond. When he tries to whisper something in the woman’s ear, she subtly scans the room. She’s looking for someone and it’s evident that she’s disappointed. 

Little does she know, her luck is about to change. 

Bellamy shifts, “How do you know?”

“Everyone that knows better is watching her,” Clarke explains with a small frown. It’s not a perfect answer, but it’s better than _ I just know _, “Treat her with the utmost respect. She’s probably the smartest person here.”

Bellamy makes a sound in between a laugh and a scoff, “I can think of one other.”

Clarke’s heart does a weird little flipping thing that’s probably illegal in her current climate. She breathily says, “Buy a few bottles for the table, and flirt with her friends so she ups the ante. I’ll meet you back at the hotel.” 

Bellamy’s fingers softly brush against the side of her palm in a comforting gesture “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

_ I don’t have a choice. _

“Madi’s depending on it,” Clarke reminds herself. 

The urge to kiss him makes her cheeks hot and her lips tingle. She’s struggling with the idea of leaving Bellamy to his own devices. It reminds her of every time she watched one of her friends go on a mission without her. But worse. It’s so much worse. A number of things could go terribly wrong and she could lose him. 

How could she survive something like that? 

Clarke squeezes his hand twice for good measure. It takes everything in her not to linger after she pushes herself away from the bar. She doesn’t glance over her shoulder, but she wishes she had the second she’s standing on the street. 

A man walks past her on his cell phone. He’s discussing the stock market at an obnoxious volume to attract the attention of money-hungry women. 

Disgusting. 

The walk back to The Mirabella gives her an uncomfortable amount of time to think. Her head is still pounding from the horrid music and false exuberance. Lexa’s still toying with her mind. If she’s working for Cage...

_ No. _

Clarke would be within her rights to chase her down, and really, it would be _ fun _. Lexa’s highly intelligent and resourceful. She has connections all around the world due to her freelance work. Clarke’s always wanted to know whose rolodex is better, but then again, Lexa’s ultimately predictable. 

For the first three months or so, she would give good chase but then she would have to work. Lexa’s line of work doesn’t offer the same type of financial backing that Clarke’s does. That’s the importance of loyalty. She’d burn through fake IDs faster than she could pay for them. And she would get paranoid. 

Her hiding would take her to the middle east where she could conceal her body from any cameras. It’s also hot. The sand is gritty and disgusting. People give up easily. Well, some people. Not Clarke. And not Lexa, who spent extensive time in the area during her contract with a bunch of gun runners. 

That’s how they even started in the first place. 

_ It would be so easy. _

But a distraction, nonetheless. Chasing Lexa would give her purpose. It would allow her to outrun the inevitable. 

Clarke unlocks the door to their hotel room. A wave of pure exhaustion rolls over her but she doesn’t have the luxury of a cat nap. She surveys the room but everything is exactly how they left it. 

Her first instinct is to retrieve her gun from her bag. It’s unreal how naked she feels without it after its prolonged absence. Her second instinct is to dig in her pocket for her phone, although she doesn’t know _ why _exactly. 

She’s not even sure who she’s about to call until her fingers are hovering over Father McKenna’s name. 

It’s useless. Clarke knows he either won’t or can’t answer. And deep down, she knows why but she can’t face that reality just yet. 

Clarke imagines the conversation starting like, _ “Hey Father, I’m having homicidal thoughts again. Any advice?” _and somehow that makes her feel a little better.   
  
Maybe he’d finally tell her the scope of his mission in Los Angeles and how it relates to Madi’s kidnaping.  
  
First Madi, now him.

Once again, she doesn’t believe in coincidences. 

The phone rings and each second, she thinks he’s about to miraculously answer but he doesn’t. Her throat becomes impossibly tight as a sinking feeling settles in her gut. 

_ Where are you? _

_Are you hiding or are you_ gone?

Clarke redials, this time less hopeful than before. A generic robotic message cuts through after its standard six rings.

She didn’t realize how much of her mental health was hanging on Father McKenna’s assurance and advice. He would pray with her, pray for her. Things would be realigned. 

She would have _ something _ to grasp in the wake of all of this nothingness if he would just tell her what’s been going on in her absence. There are too many moving pieces to this puzzle. Too much time is slipping through their fingers and they have _ nothing _to go on. 

That’s why she’s here, isn’t it?

God, she should be doing something. 

Anything. 

Waiting is driving her crazy. 

Clarke takes a seat at the wobbly table in front of a window that doesn’t open per hotel policy. Her fingers trace over her gun’s intricate design. She sadly whispers, “You wanted this so bad, Griffin. What now?”

Time passes slowly. Clarke considers hunting Lexa three more times, but each time she thinks of her unborn child and how disappointed Bellamy would be if she immersed herself back into this life. But the truth of it all is that it would be easier to trail Lexa than live in these moments. 

She hears the sound of a woman laughing before the key reader declines a card. It unlocks on the second try. 

_ Oh, he’s perfect, _Clarke muses. 

Clarke stands when she hears them step through the threshold, her gun held rigidly by her side. By the time the woman notices her, Bellamy’s closed and locked the door. He meets Clarke’s eyes, but his attention soon shifts to her weapon. 

It’s almost as if he wasn’t expecting something different. Did he think Clarke was going to make the woman tea and coax answers from her? 

She wishes she could give him his perfect fantasy of her. But that’s not something she’s capable of tonight. 

The woman’s eyes are wide but she’s not particularly afraid. It’s not the first time she’s been locked in a room with someone with a gun. _ Good. _That means Clarke picked the right one. In a thick Russian accent, she turns on Bellamy and asks, “What is this? Wife? Girlfriend?”

Clarke almost wants to hear Bellamy’s response to her questions, but he doesn’t give her the satisfaction, “We just want some information, Yarina.” 

Yarina. It’s a pretty name for a pretty woman. 

Probably fake, though. 

Bellamy’s soothing tone bothers Clarke. Yarina’s a stranger he met less than half an hour ago, but he’s already invested in her well-being. Statistically, Clarke knows women are harder to kill for some men. Objectively good men like Bellamy. 

“Fuck no,” Yarina throws a quick Russian expletive in the mix. 

“Sit down, please,” Bellamy motions towards the bed with an air of patience Clarke can’t afford. 

Yarina considers listening to him, but settles on spitting, “Go to hell.”

Clarke’s already grown tired with the back and forth. They could keep trying to sweeten the pot, but it’s useless. A woman like Yarina will only respond to two things: money and violence. Clarke’s native accent breaks through months of acting within seconds, “Sit the fuck down.”

Yarina’s reaction tells Clarke all that she needs to know. She’s properly scared now and for good reason. Her body is stiff with worry. 

_ Someone warned her. _

Bellamy’s reaction is vastly different. He’s looking at Clarke like he’s seeing her for the first time--and well, he seems quite taken with her. 

“Consider this your only warning,” Clarke speaks slowly so Yarina understands. She raises her gun until it’s pointed at Yarina’s heart in case the woman needs a visual presentation of her fate if she doesn’t comply. 

Yarina crosses the room on shaky legs. She sits primly on the very edge of the bed with a brave grimace. Her true fear is only evident in the way her fingers bunch against the unused white comforter. 

It’s hard not to feel satisfied at the sight. 

This is what she knows best. 

These moments of true human fear and desperation. 

Clarke opens with a threat in Yarina’s native tongue, “Ya mogu libo isportit' tebe noch' libo pokonchit' s zhizn'yu. Mne vse ravno.” 

_ I can either ruin your night or end your life. I do not care. _

Yarina’s fingers tighten around the comforter but she does not speak. She’s more afraid of the information she holds than she is of Clarke. 

For now. 

Clarke continues in Russian, knowing she probably won’t get a response from Yarina until she ups the ante, “Do you know Cage Wallace?” 

Yarina involuntarily flinches, her knuckles turning white. Clarke glances at Bellamy, who seemed annoyed with the Russian. He meets her eyes but then returns to watching Yarina. 

Clarke switches back to English, “Last chance.” 

Yarina’s found courage in Clarke’s momentary distraction. Maybe she’s chalked Clarke’s obvious connection to her partner up as a weakness. 

Her mistake. 

She snarks, “Who?”

Clarke sighs, and then makes a show of setting her gun down on the table as if she’s given up. She walks over to her bag and retrieves her leather kit. There’s peace in her motions that even a therapist couldn’t unravel. She hums as she unrolls it. 

“I’m going to be honest,” Clarke says as she pulls a thin, sharp knife out of her kit that she bought off a craftsman in Jordan, “I want to hurt you, but that’s not your fault. Just bad luck, really. I need an outlet.”

Yarina’s face falters. 

“I’ve told you the truth,” Clarke twirls the knife in her hands with a trained accuracy, “Your turn. Cage Wallace?” 

“Yes, I know him,” Yarina’s voice breaks in disgust as she eyes Clarke’s hands, “Devil.”

“Good,” Clarke mockingly praises her, “Wouldn’t happen to know where he is by chance?”

Yarina scoffs, but averts her gaze just enough to tell Clarke she’s about to lie, “Me?”

“Of course, Yarina--if that’s your real name, which something tells me it isn’t,” Clarke can’t help but grin at her sheer audacity, “You’re your boss’s favorite girl. You bring in the most money. Rich men like that you play dress up for them. They like competing with each other for your attention. Men with power. Men like the Mountain Men.”

A shiver runs down Yarina’s spine. She shakes her head, “No.”

“Lying won’t save your life,” Clarke reminds her, taking a step closer. 

Yarina subconsciously leans back as Clarke gets closer and closer. Finally, she confesses, “I’m just party favor. He come into town and ask for me _ and friends. _ We entertain.”

Clarke presses the knife against Yarina’s right cheek. Yarina yelps. Clarke breathes, “I’ll let you in on another secret. I know Cage, too. He wouldn’t bother to tell you to look out for someone like me if you were just a party favor.”

Yarina casts a fleeting look at Bellamy, then mumbles, “Ya ... ya splyu s odnim iz yego lyudey. On khochet menya.”

_ I sleep with one of his people. He wants me. _

Clarke lets off the knife, taking a step back as a small reward for Yarina’s cooperation, “And how does he get in touch with you?”

“Text.”

“Name?”

Yarina hesitates, then says, “Emerson.” 

_ Fucking of course, _Clarke thinks to herself. It’s hard not to roll her eyes. She’s pleased with the idea of tracking him down and giving him a taste of his own medicine. She still owes him for stabbing her last time they met. 

“I know why you are here,” Yarina gets bold as Clarke relishes in the idea of cutting Emerson up like a steak, “You want to know about girl.” 

Clarke’s hand tightens around the blade in a death vise, “You’ve seen her?”

Yarina must feel the tension shift in the room because she’s suddenly less arrogant, “By mistake.”

“When?”

“Emerson call. I go..._ entertain, _” Yarina once again looks at Bellamy as if she’s trying to save her reputation in front of him, “She broke guard’s nose. That’s when he warn me.” 

Clarke bites the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from laughing, “You must be very good at what you do if he cares so much.”

Yarina shrugs. 

“Where?”

“In LA, but they move,” Yarina looks down at the floor, “Cage mad about…”

“Entertainment?” Clarke rolls her eyes, “Who were you waiting for at the club?”

Yarina takes a moment to respond, but then she looks at Clarke’s knife again, “My girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?” Clarke can conceal her shock, even if it’s a bit ignorant of her. It’s not like she isn’t bisexual. 

“I do what I have to do to survive. She doesn’t like it,” Yarina frowns and then reverts back to Russian. Clarke’s certain it’s the most honest she’s been all night, “They will kill me if they find out I am here.”

“Get out of town. Stay away from Vosk,” Clarke puts her knife down, and then reaches in her bag once more for a stack of cash, “Give me your phone.”

Yarina’s eyes glaze over at the sight of money. Clarke knows that she’s thinking about her dreams and the sudden opportunity she’s been presented with. 

Clarke’s tone is software when she says, “Leave.”

Yarina moves faster now that she’s been pardoned. She doesn’t bother to count the money, but it’s clear that she wants to so she can be realistic about her hopes. Yarina takes the chance to pause at Bellamy, who has moved away from the door, “Shame.”

“Don’t make me change my mind,” Clarke warns. 

Clarke puts her hand against her head the moment the door shuts. The breath of relief she exhales is close to a sob. She moves around the room with a blurry purpose of pulling herself and her things together. 

“We need to--” 

Clarke lets out a noise that resembles a squeal when Bellamy lifts her off the ground. His hand grips her thigh until she wraps her legs around his waist. His eyes are burning with admiration and lust. A need she can’t properly define. She releases a small whimper before he slants his mouth across hers. 

She opens her mouth for him without much resistance. His tongue rubs against hers in lewd friction. Clarke presses herself closer to him as she shifts her hips. Bellamy pulls away with a smirk, then tosses her on the bed like she’s a weightless doll. 

Clarke stares up at him with heavy eyes. 

“Put your wrists together,” Bellamy orders. 

A pleasing little thrill curls down her spine as she does as she’s told. 

He unbuckles his belt and Clarke makes another desperate sound she’d rather not focus on. Bellamy carefully binds her hands together, looking down at her with his impossibly dark eyes like she’s his whole world. 

Bellamy softly says, “You don’t have to be in control anymore, baby.” 

The sweetness in his voice is almost enough to make her cry. 

“Let me take care of you.”

She breathes, “Okay.” 

He moves down her body with precision--a clear goal in mind, apparently. Bellamy’s hands ruck up her dress and she gasps. His hands grip her panties until they tear. 

_ Holy fuck. _

“Spread your legs,” Bellamy huskily instructs, “That’s right.”

Bellamy’s calloused thumb parts her folds, sliding her increasing wetness over her sensitive flesh. Clarke’s hips instinctively buck into the sensation. He presses slow, teasing circles into her clit. 

“No,” Clarke moans when he removes his thumb. He lightly pops her hip with the palm of his hand before placing his mouth over her clit. She closes her eyes, focusing on the feelings coursing through her body. It’s such a pleasant contrast to her previous ones. 

Bellamy’s so talented with his mouth. Truly, she’s in awe of him and every glorious thing he does to her body. Her back arches off the mattress the moment he slides one of his thick fingers in her. He’s working her over at an alarming rate. It should be a crime to be this close to the edge after an interrogation. 

He adds another finger, “Are you going to come for me?”

Bellamy’s teasing words rumble against her in the most delicious of ways. 

“Oh, please, I need you,” Clarke cries out, “I want to come with you inside of me.” 

“Fuck,” Bellamy groans as her thighs tremble under his ministrations. He pulls himself up, stripping out of his clothes in an intoxicating rush. Clarke eyes his erection with hunger. She needs him inside of her. She needs to feel what it’s like to be adored and wanted, “Put your hands over your head.”

Clarke eagerly complies. 

He climbs on top of her with the sweetest of smiles. Bellamy smooths down her hair then caresses her cheek. 

“Please,” Clarke pleads again. 

“I’m here,” Bellamy assures her with a gentle nod, “I’ll always take care of you.”

Clarke’s eyes sting with unshed tears as he positions her leg over his hip. Bellamy doesn’t look away as he slides into her. He’s careful with her like she’s made of glass. She wants to ask him how he could ever treat her so delicately after what he’s learned. 

But she can’t quite find the words. 

Instead, she whispers, “Kiss me?”

Bellamy's hand moves from her thigh to her cheek once more as he lowers his mouth to hers. Clarke kisses with as much strength as she can manage given her bindings. He thrusts into her a little harder than before. 

“Oh, fuck, yes,” Clarke breaks the kiss so she can suck in a proper breath. 

Bellamy’s lips move to her neck. He layers open-mouthed kisses against her skin as she gets closer to her undoing. He pulls all the way out before slamming back into her. She loves it when he rough with her like this. Needs it more than anything right now. A beautiful litany of curses and breathy moans slip from her lips as the muscles in her thighs tighten. 

His teeth nibble just beneath her ear, “Come for me.”

“So close. I need--”

“I know what you need,” Bellamy growls as he leans up, changing the angle completely. His hand comes around her throat, lightly squeezing as he fucks her harder. 

Clarke watches as the pleasure rolls over his features, then her eyes shift down to his cock disappearing in and out of her with such raw strength. He’s so big compared to her. Her eyes roll into the back of her head as electric shocks course through her, “That’s it, Princess. Come on my cock like a good girl.”

Her wrists strain against his belt as her orgasm rushes through her. It’s stronger than she was expecting. Blood rushes to her head and she feels nothing but peace behind her eyelids. Bellamy presses his lips against hers and then comes with a loud groan and barely audible praise. 

Bellamy’s hands reach for the belt, unbuckling it before he collapses beside her. His nose brushes against the side of her face, “The accent is fucking sexy.” 

Clarke hadn’t even realized she was using it. 

The bliss only lasts for a few minutes until reality sets in. Her jaw sets stubbornly as she considers all that she’s learned. Madi’s alive and she’s fighting. 

They might have a way to track Cage. 

Things might not be as doomed as she thought. 

His palm caresses her face, “Tell me what’s bothering you.”

She turns her head, placing a fleeting kiss on the corner of his mouth, “We’re not safe here.”

“Alright, let’s go.” 

Clarke relaxes when Bellamy has successfully steered them away from LA traffic. She’s wearing her regular clothes once more, but she smells like cheap hotel soap and powder. It’s better than risking the possibility of smelling like sex post-mission. 

Her mind keeps fiddling with what comes next. What happens when she gets back to Arkadia and delivers this information to her father? At this moment, she can’t think of anything better than having a family with Bellamy Blake. The possibility of PTA meetings, science fairs, and beautiful Christmas Eves makes her heart full. 

“I thought I was ready to come back to this world, but I’m not,” Clarke knows she should properly think before speaking, but then she might not ever say it, “Things are different now.”

Bellamy’s eyes stray from the road, “Because of the baby?” 

“I think getting pregnant changed my priorities, yes,” Clarke says, “But I don’t know. I think I was changing way before that.” 

“How so?” 

Clarke picks at her jeans with a small frown. Her thoughts are chaotic, at best but she somehow strings together a perfect sentiment, “Besides the fear of losing both you and Madi, you know what the worst part of my day was?”

Bellamy hums, most likely not sure how to answer her. 

“Harper not talking to me,” Clarke ironically smiles to herself, “I’m attached. I _ care. _ That was never my intention. For so long, I’ve only had my family. That’s all I could afford to trust and--” 

“We’re a family, now, Clarke,” He holds his hand out to her, “I’m your family.”

“I’m afraid of losing what I have here…” Clarke swallows the lump forming in her throat, “And I’m worried, I already have.”

“I was angry last night,” Bellamy takes a deep breath, “I shouldn’t have sent you away like that.” 

Clarke shakes her head, “You were right to be mad.”

“You made the same choice I would have made,” Bellamy says with confidence, “That everyone would have made. You didn’t owe me anything. Not at all. They’re your family.”

“But I did owe you something,” Clarke’s words are watery despite her usual no-crying policy, “I wanted to tell you.”

“I know,” Bellamy squeezes her hand the way she did in the club, “I know that, Clarke. Let’s get something to eat, okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting exciting!! I want to know what you think so be sure to comment your favorite part of this chapter below. I'm an attention whore and comments keep me immensely motivated to continue with this piece. Your kudos always appreciated. 
> 
> This was a fun chapter to write for multiple reasons--mainly the range of emotion. 
> 
> \- Norvina <3


	11. Chapter 11

The car ride is shorter than she expected—probably because a part of her wants to be lost with Bellamy forever. Another reason being that she fell asleep during the final stretch of it. 

There was a certain amount of charm in the way Clarke girlishly giggled (she’ll deny it if anyone asks) as she shoved salty fries into his mouth while he drove; a charm her darkening reality lacks. 

Bellamy’s content laughter and small talk lulled her into a state of peace. He told her story after story about his unconventional youth, probably hoping she would chime in with a story of her own. He didn’t push when she chose not to offer anything up, though.

That meant the most to her. 

He gently wakes her when they’re a minute or two from the compound. Clarke’s alert the moment his fingers lightly brush against her cheek. One look in his eyes tells her that he’s unnerved by her knee-jerk reaction. 

Clarke stares daggers at the clock on the dashboard. It hasn’t been long since she dozed off. A frustrated noise escapes her. 

“I know, Princess,” Bellamy’s smirking as he tries out his new pet name. Clarke can’t help but roll her eyes, but she’s not sure if it’s at him or the stubborn flush on her cheeks, “I want you to take it easy today, okay?”

“I want to give you that assurance but I’m not certain where today will take us,” Clarke says in a dejected breath. There’s a million bad scenarios running through her head, “But I hope my desire to obey is enough.”

Bellamy isn’t fooled by her well-chosen words, “I wasn’t prepared for how much sweeter your accent makes you. You’ve got me wrapped around your little finger.”

She can’t help but snort, “I definitely won’t use that against you later.”

“Mmm, I’m all too willing to see how much trouble you can get into,” Bellamy’s voice is a mind-throttling coo, “Just remember bad girls get punished.” 

Clarke has to take a calming breath before she responds, “I think you’re all talk. You still haven’t punished me from last time.”

“Have you been waiting to be punished?” Bellamy huskily asks, clearly enamored with everything she’s saying. His hand strays from the steering wheel, landing on her upper thigh. 

Her inner-brat beams with pride as she places her hand above his, “Yes sir, and quite frankly, I’m not impressed.” 

Clarke watches from the corner of her eye as Bellamy’s jaw slackens. She shouldn’t be playing this game with him when they’re so close to their people. 

“Oh, Clarke,” Bellamy purrs like she’s given him an early Christmas present, “I’m going to enjoy this new game very much.” 

Her father comes into view as the car creeps towards the main complex where Phoenix has taken root. He’s soon joined by her mother and her unit. It’s a whole welcome wagon. 

Clarke’s breath does a weird little thing as her two worlds collide once more. 

She nervously tries to fix her hair, thanking the trinity for tinted windows. 

“You’re beautiful,” Her brain short wires with such a genuine compliment. It’s almost enough to calm her until he whispers, “They won’t ever know how you whined underneath me.” 

Her thighs tighten, his hand suddenly trapped between them, “Please.”

“Just like that,” Bellamy’s voice is like buttercream icing despite his sinful words. Clarke could die right now. The last thing she wants to do is debrief her parents. God, she could think of a hundred different things she would rather do and 7 of them involve the backseat of her car, “Something wrong?”

Clarke frowns now that sexual frustration has been added to her list of issues, “No.”

Bellamy tsks his disapproval.

“No, sir.”

“That’s better,” Bellamy’s wolffish grin is only highlighted by his flexing fingers against her inner thigh, “We’ll talk about your behavior later. Until then, please take care of yourself.” 

Clarke whispers, “I want to kiss you.”

“I want to kiss you, too,” Bellamy affirms as he puts the car in park. There’s a warmth in his eyes she wishes she could recreate every moment of every day. 

“But we have obligations.”

“Yes.”

Clarke opens the passenger side door with an exquisitely crafted mask of indifference across her features. She reholsters her gun with the same conflict she’s felt since her father returned it. 

She stands tall, regardless. 

Kane and a few stray members of Skaikru approach from the garage portion of the compound with extremely serious expressions. It seems relations haven’t been improving with their absence. 

_ We’ve really got to figure this out,  _ Clarke thinks. Maybe things would be better if she told her parents the truth. She wants to, really, but then she would have to voice all her other thoughts as well about Cage’s master plan. 

And could either of their families handle the truth?

Clarke can’t stifle her yawn when she asks, “Raven here?” 

Her unit seems to take a collective breath now that she’s regained her rightful accent. Clarke feels a little bare without her best laid shields. 

“She’s asleep,” Jake Griffin responds with tired, red eyes. Her father frowns when Kane completes his approach. While Bellamy is giving Phoenix a wide berth, Kane’s decided to invade their circle.

Apparently he doesn’t like to be told what to do in his own house. Why does it always come down to who has the most power? 

“We found Emerson’s girlfriend. She—“

“Emerson…,” Roan, who is eating a dry looking nutrition bar, furrows his brows, “Isn’t that the guard that stabbed you?”

Kane’s eyes widen at Roan’s nonchalance. If only he knew how mundane petty injuries are to them. Her friend shrugs, goes back to eating his breakfast. 

Clarke’s relieved she can’t see Bellamy’s expression because she can feel his eyes burning into the back of her head. 

“We found his girlfriend. Paid her to leave town, and for her phone,” Clarke pulls the phone out of her back pocket, handing it to her father with care. “We can track him if he reaches out to her, right?”

“Yes,” Jake grips the device like a lifeline, “This is good. This is a lead.” 

Her mother, who looks awful, finally speaks, “This is what we needed.” 

Clarke regrets not paying much attention to Abby when she first joined her people. It’s her training, though—to report to Jake first.   


“Aww, did little Clarky do good?” Roan tries to ruffle her hair but Clarke dodges him. 

When he doesn’t relent, she grabs his forearm and twists his arm behind his back until she can shove him against the wall with a strength she almost forgot she held.  


The metal creaks as Roan hits it. 

Roan groans, “Always trying to make the rest of us look bad.”

Her father deadpans, “It isn’t hard. Haven’t you learned that Clarke isn’t a morning person by now?”

Clarke releases Roan and then  runs her fingers through her hair as she speaks to rid the tingling feeling she got when Jake hinted at their collective familiarity with one another, “The girlfriend—she says she saw Madi in LA.”

Her mother’s eyes ask a heavy question:  _ is she alive? _

Clarke can’t help but smile with unconcealed pride, “She broke a man’s nose.”

Abby’s fist turn into tight balls as she tries to master her emotions, “Oh, thank god.”

Kane interjects with an expression of pure doubt, “How do you know this  _ woman _ was telling the truth?” 

Objectively, Clarke knows that Kane is within his rights to question their source. Their luck was uncharacteristic. But she has to hold onto this piece of hope or she’ll start to spiral again.  


This has to be good news.

Her pride is obvious when she responds, “Because she knew if she didn’t, no one would ever find her body. At least going my way allowed her the freedom to live.”

Jake frowns. Their policy is typically ‘leave no witnesses’. 

Abby hums, “Clarke is a highly competent interrogator.”

“I see,” Kane’s not impressed with her mother’s high praise, “Anything else of importance to disclose?” 

Her father cuts in, “Not on our end.” 

It’s a clear dismissal. 

“Bellamy,” Kane says with steel in his voice, “Let’s debrief our people.” 

Kane and his entourage turn to walk back to the garage. Clarke wants to glance over her shoulder at Bellamy but it would be too telling. 

Abby reaches out to cup Clarke’s cheek with steady hands, “You need to get some sleep. You’re running off fumes, my dear.”

She thinks about what Bellamy asked her to do. Clarke closes her eyes, swallowing thickly, “Yeah, okay.” 

“I want you close,” Jake doesn’t offer much explanation, “Their supposed _clubhouse_ has a few empty rooms. Pick one.”

“Lincoln,” Abby says with fondness, “Show her around.” 

Jake keeps Roan and Luna back with a wave of his hand. Lincoln doesn’t say much until they’re in the complex and away from her parents. 

Her eyes sweep over the clearly masculine decor. Posters of pornstars hang in the dining area, which is only a few ratty looking metal chairs.  


The entire place smells of smoke and sweat and beer. Clarke’s thoroughly disturbed with the whole place but also mildly intrigued.   


She’s not letting her kid near here without a tetanus shot. 

“So, how long have you been involved with Bellamy?”

Clarke’s only shocked for half a second. Her resolve quickly resurfaces, “It’s complicated.”

Lincoln muses out loud, “He’s seen violence, but when he looks at you, he sees peace.”

Art has been Lincoln’s escape for some time. Clarke used to sketch quite a bit but she hasn’t been inspired since she left Phoenix. In many ways, ballet has substituted what her hands used to do. 

Despite its obvious beauty, Clarke forgot how annoying Lincoln’s observations could be. 

Clarke snorts, “Poetic.”

“And you’ve seen violence, but when you look at him, you feel…whole?”

Her eyebrows furrow as Lincoln works out his newest piece based around her fucked up life, “That obvious?”

Lincoln simply shrugs as if the trance has been broken, “If it is, no one else is raising concerns. But neither of you are particularly subtle.”

“What we have is…” Clarke pauses as she tries to find the right word for it but only one comes to mind, “It’s human.”

Lincoln’s disappointment is evident, “That’s sweet, really, but you know how this ends better than anyone. When you come home, it’s going to be hard to maintain—”

Clarke turns on her heels quickly, knowing her face would reveal all her secrets. If she says it out loud to someone like Lincoln, then it’s real. And what if—in the end—it’s an unnecessary weight on her family’s shoulders. 

These last few hours have been the happiest in her life with Bellamy, but a part of her wishes she could take it all back. It’ll be harder on Bellamy if Cage gets his way because she couldn’t resist the instinct to fall into him. 

Lincoln’s footsteps increase in pace behind her. Clarke tries to dismiss him, “Lincoln, I’m tired.”

“You’re not planning on coming home,” Lincoln lowly hisses in uncharacteristic anger. She can see how this would feel like a betrayal without context, “That’s why you refused to come back when Jake ordered you—“

Miller and Jasper walk down the hallway in front of her. Jasper is rubbing his tired eyes, muttering expletives about Kane waking him up at this hour. They cast ugly looks at Clarke, and then at Lincoln, who has caught up with her. 

Jasper quietly mumbles a word that sounds like “traitor” under his breath. Her heart beats hard against her chest. Jasper always liked her.

God, things are really fucked up. 

“You want to live like this?” Lincoln harshly inquires and she can feel the lump in her throat hardening again, “Come home. We need you. We need you, Clarke. I need you. Please.”

Clarke thinks of Lexa’s sentiment on  _ change _ . If someone had told her a year ago that she would be planning on retiring from Phoenix on a permanent basis, she would have punched them. 

But now...

Yet, there’s a part of her that’s stubbornly hanging onto everything she’s always considered home. She wishes she could split herself in two for the people in her heart. 

Clarke Chase could stay here and make casseroles and raise her child. 

Clarke Griffin could head back to Ireland and drive fast cars and follow every order without question. 

“I can’t,” Clarke’s eyes sting, “I’m in over my head, Linc.”

Lincoln’s words are interwoven with his protective nature, “I’ll help you.” 

“You can’t,” Clarke stares down the hallway, a few tears running down her cheeks, “I’m pregnant.”

Lincoln curses. 

“I’m actually quite happy about it,” Clarke runs a hand over her face, “But I...it’s so much harder when I know what I’m losing.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello 👋 
> 
> It’s a shorter chapter this go around BUT the next chapter is already drafted and it’s 
> 
> ✨ d r a m a t i c ✨ 
> 
> Thank you for all of your lovely reviews. They brighten my day so keep ‘em coming. 
> 
> Clarke’s a naturally secretive person because she’s highly protective of her family, of the people she cares for, and even of herself. Unfortunately, she can’t keep it up forever. 
> 
> I’m considering writing companion pieces to this work. Let me know what you think? (Bellamy’s POV, a prequel, a SEQUEL?) 
> 
> What are your projections for the next SIX CHAPTERS? What’s something you really want to see? 
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Norvina 🤍


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